H.  E.  WOODS 


GOD'S   MAN 


A  Novel 


BY 

GEORGE  BRONSON-HOWARD 


ILLUSTRATED    INITIALS    BY 

WILL  VAWTER 


O27 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1915 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


BRAUNWORTH   k   CO. 
BOOKBINDERS    AND    PRIN1 
BROOKLYN.    N.    Y. 


To 

HEWITT  HANSON  HOWLAND 

The  Second  Father  of 
this  Book 


2136520 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 
CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  BEGINNINGS 1 

I.  Genesis.     II.  The  Fighting  L'Hommedieus. 

II.  THE  CHEVYING  OF  QUIWEKS 8 

I.  Our  Musketeers  at  College.  II.  And  Why  They 
Chevied  Quivvers. 

III.  HAVRE  DE  GRACE 22 

Our  Musketeers  at  Home. 

IV.  ARISTOCRATS          34 

I.  Squire  Hartogensis  Receives  a  Proposition.  II. 
The  Attic  in  Gramercy  Park.  III.  The  Costly  Miss 
Caton.  IV.  How  She  Lost  One  Musketeer.  V.  How 
She  Won  Another. 

V.  CATASTBOPHE 59 

I.  How  the  Honorable  John  Waldemar  Taught  His 
Son  to  Be  Honorable,  Too — Introducing  Miss  Bobbie 
Beulah.  II.  Bobbie's  Little  Supper  Party. 

BOOK  II 

I.  ARNOLD'S  ADVENTURES  IN  PLUNDEBLAND         ....       79 
I.  Little  One  and  Velvet  Voice.    II.  The  Trunk  That 
Would  Hold  Three  Men.    III.   Why  Hans  Chasserton. 
Wore  a  Straw  Hat  in  January. 

II.    SONS  OF  SUBTEBBANEA 108 

I.  Sonetchka  Visits  Mother  Mybus.  II.  The  Ungodly 
Horde.  III.  Hans  Chasserton  Takes  up  Residence  at 
the  Yew  Tree  Inn.  IV.  Old  Mitt-and-a-Half.  V.  The 
Cagey  Kid  "Turns  Square." 

III.  How  ARNOLD  GOT  OUT  OF  JAIL 13? 

I.He  Meets  Nietzsche  in  Motley.     II.  Flarrity's Court 


BOOK  III 

I.  THE  PINK  KIMONO 159 

I.  Arnold  Investigates  Along  New  Lines.  II.  The 
Pink  Kimono  Hangs  in  Beeckman  Place. 

II.  CONSPIRACY  DE  Lux 168 

Arnold  Becomes  a  Good  Business  Man. 

III.  THE  GAY  LIFE 181 

I.  At  Rocamora's  Restaurant  II.  On  the  Threshold 
of  Subterranea.  III.  The  Attic  Has  Hope  of  Arnold. 
IV.  Arnold  Gives  Up  Velvet  Voice  and  Hears  of  an 
Old  Friend. 


CONTENTS— Continued 
BOOK  IV 


PAGE 


CHAPTEB 

I.  IN  WHICH  ARNOLD  GETS  A  CHEQUE 221 

And  Comes  Home  Again. 


II.  NO-MAN'S  LAND *** 

Arnold  Meets  a  Philosopher. 

III.  CONTBABAND 245 

Enter  Captain  Danny  of  the  "Cormorant." 

IV.  THE  HAPPENINGS  OF  A  SINGLE  DAY 254 

I.  Quentin  Quiwers — Benefactor.  II.  On  Forty- 
seventh  Street.  III.  What  Arnold  Heard  in  His  Al- 
cove. IV.  In  Which  Velvet  Voice  Does  Not  Wait  for 
Arnold  to  Cast  Her  Off.  V.  Concerning  Dulness  ia 
the  Coffee  Trade.  VI.  The  Pink  Kimono  Comes  Back 
to  Beeckman  Place. 

BOOK  V 

I.  THE  BLOW  FALLS 307 

I.   "Van  Vhroon,  Coffee."     II.    Arnold  Gives  Up  th« 
Fight. 
II.  REBELLION 325 

The  Inn  Claims  Arnold  for  Its  Own. 

BOOK  VI 

I.  THB  VIKING  SHIP 341 

I.  She  Goes.  II.  Arnold  Stays.  III.  On  the  Spanish 
Main. 

II.  THE  WIRELESS  MESSAGE 353 

Pink  Turns  Philosopher. 

III.  DENOUNCED 370 

I.  Outside  the  Pale.  II.  Detective  McKiss  Has  a 
Caller. 

BOOK  VII 

I.  THE  NIGHT  OP  THE  SEVENTEENTH 389 

I.  "Onward,  Christian  Soldiers."  II.  Marching  as  to 
War.  III.  The  Awakening  of  Mr.  McKiss.  IV.  The 
Shots  in  the  Dark.  V.  Hartogensis  Hall  Again. 

II.  THE  HUE  AND  CRY 437 

I.  Arnold  Returns.  II.  Arnold  Escapes.  III.  Arnold 
Despairs.  IV.  Arnold  Learns  Why. 

III.  WRECK  ASHORE 468 

Arnold's  Decision  Ratified. 


GOD'S   MAN 


BOOK  I 


GOD'S   MAN 


CHAPTER    ONE 

BEGINNINGS 
I.  GENESIS 

T  ALL  began  with— what  ?  Who 
knows?  The  expulsion  of  our 
**  Three  Musketeers  after  the 
-  chevying  of  Quivvers?  Quen- 
i  tin  Quivvers  he  called  himself, 
,  although  the  Lord  (and  every- 
body else)  knows  that  was  not 
±  his  name.  The  "Q"— "Peter 
.  Q.  Quiwers"  was  the  way  his 
.'  name  was  entered  at  Old 
Bang's  College  —  stood  for 
"Quimby."  But  there  was  an 
ancient/  clam-digger  in  Q's 
native  village,  an  ape-like 
little  brown  man.  And  he  was  Quimby,  too.  Young  Quiv- 
vers did  not  wish  people  to  think  he  was  "related  to  him" — 
chiefly  because  he  was.  .  .  . 

There,  there!      Quivvers  needs  too  much  explanation  to 
begin  with  him. 

Did  it  begin  with  the  arrival  of  Ivan,  the  moujik,  the 
boyar  to  be?      Ivan  Vladimirovitch — John,  son  of  Walde- 


2  God's  Man 

mar — the  Honorable  John  Waldemar,  as  he  was  some  day  to 
be  called.  .  .  . 

But,  you  see?  It  takes  too  long  to  explain  how  all  that 
could  happen. 

Suppose  we  go  back  a  century  to  the  days  when  Jan  Har- 
togensis  and  Amalia,  his  wife,  served  their  patrons  at  the 
Yew  Tree  Inn,  in  old  Greenwich,  Manhattan — gold-laced, 
cocked-hatted  patrons,  snowy-wigged,  club-queued  patroons, 
many  of  them. 

Patroons ! 

Such  as  the  Van  Vhroons,  for  instance.  Van  Vhroon 
Manor  gave  the  Lane  its  name,  then.  And  swords  would 
have  left  silken  sheaths  had  any  gentleman  (in  wine,  of 
course)  had  the  hardihood  to  suggest,  as  a  bare  possibility, 
that  a  daughter  of  that  house  might  some  day  be  allied  with 
a  son  of  those  peasant  Hartogensisi.  And  these  honest  sons 
of  Jan  and  Amalia  would  have  used  their  beer-mallets  on  any 
one  who  dared  suggest  that  their  Inn  might  some  day  become 
a  place  where  stolen  goods  were  bought  and  sold. 

And  yet    ...     all  this,  in  good  time,  was  to  come  to 


And  yet  again  Mother  Mybus,  then  a  fresh-faced  Eussian 
girl,  wandering  the  old  Bowery.  Lacking  male  relatives  with 
swords  to  defend  her  reputation  against  base  insinuations,  it 
is  probable  that  she  would  have  used  her  fists  had  she  been 
told  that  she  would  preside  over  that  same  pawn-shop,  and 
that  furtive  folk  would  some  day  submit  to  her  ap- 
praisals. .  ..  . 

Yet  that  came  to  pass  also,  as  you  shall  hear.     .     .     . 

Ah,  after  all,  is  there  any  beginning  but  one?  "In  the 
beginning  God  created  the  Heaven  and  the  Earth/'  The 
history  of  any  man  is  the  history  of  the  world.  No  matter 
where  we  begin,  we  must  always  go  back,  always  explain,  that 
it  was  thus  and  so  this  man  was  made.  And  had  it  been 
otherwise  there  would  be  no  evil — nor  good — in  him.  There 
is  no  beginning  and  there  is  no  end. 


Beginnings  3 

II.  THE  FIGHTIXG  L'HOMMEDIEUS 

Although,  as  we  have  hazarded,  there  is  but  one  actual 
beginning,  that  is  quite  a  different  matter  from  the  first 
definite  beginning.  In  the  case  of  this  chronicle  of  Arnold 
L'Hommedieu,  his  life  and  loves,  and  other  matters  important 
to  him,  the  latter  would  seem  to  be  a  certain  hot  and  dusty 
day  on  the  field  of  Ascalon,  nearly  a  thousand  years  ago,  when 
there  was  conferred  upon  a  certain  Knight-Hospitaller,  Sir 
Lucas  of  St.  John,  the  Norman-French  equivalent  of  sur- 
name "L'Hommedieu"  meaning  "God's  Man." 

This  same  Sir  Lucas,  a  few  years  later,  fled  the  Preceptory 
of  the  Knights  of  Jerusalem;  having  broken  his  monkish 
vows  and  married  her  whose  importuning  caused  him  to  do 
so.  For  he  was  not  one  who  could  wax  fat  and  wealthy  in 
sin ;  his  conscience  would  not  let  him.  And,  although  his  sin 
need  never  have  found  him  out,  it  was  enough  for  him  that 
it  had  found  him. 

So  he  set  a  lifelong  penance  on  himself  and  chained  the 
woman's  lips  with  a  terrible  oath  never  to  reveal  his  birth, 
his  titles  or  his  former  pretensions.  .  .  .  Eeaching  the 
trades-town  of  Dijon,  he  who  had  nearly  been  Grand  Master 
of  all  the  Knights-Hospitallers  became  a  common  Armorer 
to  noblesse  and  commonesse  alike,  and  was  thereafter  simple 
"Maitre  Lucas." 

So  well  did  he  and  his  indifferently  good  dame  keep  his 
secret  that  all  their  children  ever  found  to  connect  them  with 
the  past  was  a  vellum  screed  concealed  between  the  moldy 
leather  lining  and  the  steel  links  of  the  chain-mail  he  had 
worn  while  winning  the  very  honors  the  screed  commemo- 
rated. It  seemed  that,  for  rescuing  some  Royal  Princeling 
from  Saracen  battleaxes,  "our  trusty  and  well-beloved  Sir 
Lucas  .  .  .  sans  surname  of  birth  relinquished  when  tak- 
ing his  vows"  .  .  .  should  henceforward  be  known  by  that 
"higher  one"  (here  we  arbitrarily  curtail  certain  Gallic  ety- 


4  God's  Man 

mology  and  Norman  spelling),   "Le  Homme   De  Dieu"- 
L'Hommedieu. 

Failing  another  name — they  would  much  have  preferred 
one  which  connected  them  with  some  ancient  family — his 
sons  and  daughters  adopted  this  one.  But  for  all  the  fine 
gound  of  it,  the  world  in  general  heard  no  more  of  the  L'Hom- 
medieus  until  a  certain  Etienne  L'Hommedieu,  three  cen- 
turies later — he  who  had  also  been  consecrated  to  Holy 
Church — duplicated  his  ancestor's  iconoclasm  and,  afterward, 
many  of  his  deeds  of  valor. 

But  a  new  religion  had  come  into  being  since  Lucas,  and 
Etienne  did  not  go  back  to  his  father's  shop  after  taking  a 
wife,  but  into  the  ranks  of  the  Huguenots,  carrying  a  Bible  in 
one  hand,  a  sword  in  the  other  as  did  many  in  those  grim 
days;  and  when  Harry  V)f  Navarre  became  a  good  Catholic 
King,  went  off  to  the  Low  Countries  to  become  a  leader  of 
insurgent  Dutch,  and,  when  there  was  no  more  fighting,  came 
to  the  New  World  and  helped  build  New  Amsterdam.  But 
certain  religious  differences  with  the  Dutch  clergy  made  him 
eager  to  go  where  he  might  be  the  sole  authority  on  points 
of  worship  so  he  asked  for  his  first  reward  in  return  for  many 
services  to  the  Eepublic  and  the  religion,  requesting  a  grant 
of  land  wherever  he  might  choose  to  settle;  then  sent  to 
France  for  any  sturdy  Huguenot  burgesses  of  Dijon  who 
wished  to  be  assured  against  persecution  when  Navarre  no 
longer  ruled  France.  Meanwhile  he  began,  methodically  and 
tirelessly,  to  search  the  country  roundabout  Manhattan 
Island. 

He  discovered  Havre  de  Grace  by  accident,  his  boat  having 
been  blown  across  the  Sound  while  exploring  what  was  after- 
ward called  the  Connecticut  Shore;  and,  driven  by  contrary 
winds,  made  the  first  secure  haven  he  could  find. 

The  next  morning,  when  the  early  sunlight  lay  ruddy  over 
the  pine-clad  slopes  of  his  harbor  he  knelt  and  gave  thanks 
for  God's  wise  decision.  The  spot  selected  by  his  Creator— 
as  he  piously  and  somewhat  egotistically  believed— was  a  wide 


Beginnings  5 

harbor,  half  a  mile  across,  shaped  somewhat  like  a  bottle,  its 
neck  jumping  distance  across.  On  all  sides  the  slopes  rose 
to  a  height  of  a  hundred  feet  or  more,  guaranteeing  health- 
ful air  and  no  plagues  of  insects.  The  soil  was  fertile,  a 
wilderness  of  vegetation;  and  was  irrigated  by  a  stream  that 
wound  in  and  out  above,  then  dashed  down  in  a  crystal  tor- 
rent, icy  cold,  a  useful  force  to  be  harnessed  to  a  future  flour 
mill.  Dolphins  leaped  and  sported  showing  silver  stomachs 
in  the  sun,  flocks  of  red-billed  green-necked  ducks  flew  low 
over  the  marshes  and  gray  geese  fished  with  them  in  amity, 
while  crows  rose  over  fields  of  golden  corn,  their  well-filled 
black  bellies  purpling  in  the  sun.  Jeweled  herons,  too,  fish- 
hawks  and  many  gulls  flew  in  circles  over  the  shining  water, 
finding  food  everywhere  and,  ashore,  he  could  see  the  breath- 
ing places  of  clams,  and  strewn  along  the  beach,  oyster  shells 
and  lobster-paws  washed  colorless  by  the  tide.  Over  the 
dazzling  sand  a  turtle  ambled  leisurely,  as  is  the  custom  of 
turtles. 

There  were  Indians  near  by,  the  planters  of  the  corn,  a 
small  tribe  and  a  peaceful  one,  and  with  these  the  Chevalier 
L'Hommedieu  made  a  solemn  pact. 

The  Indians  were  to  retain  the  left  bank  of  the  harbor, 
where  the  golden  corn  gleamed.  Although,  for  safety's  sake, 
lest  other  and  alien  spirits  be  drawn  by  the  success  of  his 
colony,  the  Chevalier  had  all  that  land  included  in  his  grant 
from  the  Dutch  Eepublic.  The  village  of  Havre  de  Grace 
was  built  on  the  right  bank;  its  wharves,  docks  and  public 
buildings  on  the  lowlands  at  the  harbor-head,  the  lowland 
that  afterward  held  the  principal  streets  of  the  town  after 
the  English  accession. 

And  on  the  high  ground  arose  the  Church  of  the  Cross, 
bearing  the  L'Hommedieu  arms  on  stained  glass  especially 
done  by  Amsterdam  artists.  There  the  Chevalier  gave  out 
the  Word  of  God  without  conflict  with  theologians,  Dutch, 
French,  or  otherwise.  There,  and  elsewhere  in  the  town,  his 
word  was  law,  and.  though  the  English  came,  the  Established 


6  God's  Man 

Church  never.  The  English  found  the  L'Hommedieu  con- 
ception of  the  gospel  sufficiently  satisfying. 

A  L'Hommedieu  has  preached  from  that  pulpit  ever 
since.  The  eldest  son,  most  frequently  the  only  one — he  who 
toils  all  day  with  his  hands  and  half  the  night  with  his  brains 
— is  not  prolific  of  progeny.  In  one  thing  all  the  L'Hom- 
medieus  were  unique.  The  Chevalier  had  laid  down,  among 
other  family  laws,  the  chief  one.  No  wages,  no  gifts,  were 
to  be  taken  for  preaching  the  Word.  That  must  be  done  for 
the  love  of  God,  the  love  of  man. 

"Payment  doth  stultify  the  truth,  inasmuch  as  one  depend- 
ent upon  the  good  will  of  others  is  prudently  tongue-tied 
when  those  who  richly  endow  him  shall  fail  in  their  duty  to 
their  fellows.  Though  the  Word  has  said  that  a  rich  man 
may  not  enter  His  kingdom,  many  do  seek  so  to  enter  paying 
His  clerk  to  suppress  reports  of  their  wrongdoing. 

"And  so  I  say  to  you,  sons  and  grandsons  (until  this  issue 
of  my  loins  falter  and  fail),  you  may  be  free  for  God  only 
when  you  are  free  of  men.  Till  diligently  the  soil  left  you, 
tend  tenderly  God's  creatures  of  the  barn  and  stable,  bring 
forth  the  fruits  of  His  land  in  plenty,  so  that  you  may  take 
His  pay  from  His  hands. 

"And  when  there  is  more  than  enough,  it  is  His  word  that 
there  are  others  who  have  less  than  enough,  and  it  is  your  duty 
to  seek  and  find  them  and  give  with  both  hands,  overflow- 
ing." .  .  . 

So  runs  a  literal  translation  of  a  half -page  of  the  worn  old 
sheepskin,  the  home-made  sloe-berry  ink  faded,  the  clerkly 
Latin  only  to  be  guessed  at,  else  the  whole  document,  lordly 
but  loving,  fierce  but  tender,  warlike  yet  only  for  peace,  should 
here  be  given.  Such  a  screed  only  a  Prince  of  Men  could 
have  written,  let  alone  lived.  That  had  been  the  Chevalier's 
way.  He  might  have  been  the  first  and  the  greatest  of  the 
patroons,  those  lordly  landholders,  rivaling  any  Duke  of  his 
native  land.  But  it  was  too  little  for  one  who  had  ruled  over 


Beginnings  7 

many  Kingdoms  in  the  souls  of  men,  and  who  meant  that  his 
descendants  should  do  likewise. 

So  the  largest  portion  of  his  land  became  the  township's — 
the  common  property  of  all.  Every  one  of  his  friends  and 
followers  received  patents  from  him  for  farms  almost  as  large 
as  his  own,  the  extra  portion  set  aside  in  his  name  being  for 
the  upkeep  of  the  Church  and  for  charity.  As  soon,  as  they 
could  afford  a  Town  clerk  the  Chevalier  filed  with  him  docu- 
ments that  would  secure  to  each  his  little  property,  and  espe- 
cially the  Indians  who  had  trusted  him,  against  the  greed  of 
future  white  men. 

So,  as  something  of  Sir  Lucas  had  been  born,  again  in 
Etienne,  so  was  that  something  born  in  Arnold  nearly  three 
hundred  years  later,  that  something  that  made  men  hold 
Bibles  in  one  hand,  swords  in  the  other;  that  something  that 
had  cut  down  heathens  at  Ascalon  and  another  sort  of  heathen 
in  the  defeats  of  the  Guises  and  the  Alvas. 

Arnold  L'Hommedieu  was  to  learn  on  less  glorious  battle- 
fields, however,  men  had  grown  meaner  since  the  Chevalier, 
dealing  blows  with  dishonest  weapons,  with  what,  until 
stricken,  one  could  not  know  for  weapons  at  all. 

And  to  learn  these  things  Arnold  must  know  disgrace — the 
martyrdom  of  civilization ;  must  be  crucified,  too,  and  be,  not 
a  noble  sight  to  move  hearts,  but  a  mock  in  the  mouths  of 
men;  crucified  between  thieves,  to  find  them,  like  Barabbas, 
nobler  souls  than  those  respected  ones  who  had  condemned 
them. 

And  that  is  the  story  I  will  now  begin  to  tell. 


CHAPTER    TWO 

THE  CHEVYING  OF  QUIVVEKS 
I.  OUR  MUSKETEERS  AT  COLLEGE 

E  nearly  began  with  Quivvers 
and  his  chevying  before;  and, 
in  a  way,  it  would  have  been 
right  to  do  so ;  for  that  chevying 
was  the  first  episode  in  the  life 
of  Arnold  L'Hommedieu  that 
seriously  concerns  this  history. 
Had  it  not  been  for  pasty 
Quivvers  and  his  sly  ugly  ways, 
Arnold  L'Hommedieu  would 
have  followed  his  forefathers 
as  rector  of  the  little  gray- 
lichened  church  aflame  with 
red  sage;  and  would  have  striven,  in  all  things,  to  have  done 
as  they  did.  Instead,  through  this  same  despicable  Quivvers, 
he  was  to  become  .  .  . 

Enough  of  that!  What  was  he?  That  is  what  is  before 
us  now. 

Well,  truth  to  tell,  in  appearance  he  was  much  like  other 
youngsters  of  his  sort;  just  such  another  as  any  one  of  the 
boys  one  sees  at  St.  Paul's  or  Dartmouth  or  the  smaller  New 
England  colleges.  He  was  clean  and  wholesome,  if  a  trifle  too 
inflexible  and  lacking  in  humor,  perhaps ;  but  that  can  be  for- 
given a  youth  who  strove  to  live  up  to  a  standard  of  honor 
almost  impossible  nowadays.  Arnold  was  even  less  mischievous 


The  Chevying  of  Quivvers  9 

than  other  boys  of  his  kind  are  apt  to  be ;  mischievousness  and 
a  sense  of  boyish  dignity  ill-comport  together.  Besides,  he 
must  remember  that,  some  day,  he  would  be  the  Eeverend 
Arnold.  He  owed  it  to  that  some-day-to-be  Eeverend  to  do 
nothing  to  jeopardize  his  some-day-to-be  Keverend  influence. 
He  must  find  things  a  boy  could  do  that  would  serve  as  out- 
lets for  his  essentially  and  normally  boyish  nature,  yet  would 
in  no  way  tarnish  a  Eeverend's  'scutcheon. 

And  he  found  them.    Particularly  one. 

Although  he  had  never  been  known  to  begin  a  battle,  he  had 
more  sanguinary  encounters  to  his  credit  than  most  boys  had 
to  their  discredit.  It  was  to  Arnold  that  maltreated  urchins 
ran,  digging  knuckles  into  eyes  already  sufficiently  grimy  to 
keep  up  a  flow  of  tears,  tangible  evidence  of  the  brutal  oppres- 
sion for  which  they  sought  a  redress  they  never  failed  to  get. 
There  was  a  glad  light  in  Arnold's  eyes  once  his  much-too- 
much-in-evidence  conscience  was  satisfied;  the  light  that  was 
in  Sir  Lucas'  at  Ascalon  when  he  yielded-not-an-inch  to  I- 
don't-know-how-many  Saracens  and  saved  the  Fat  Prince  and 
the  Fatter  Bishop. 

Arnold  had  the  strength  of  a  well-knit  boy  who  is  neither 
too  tall  nor  too  broad,  and  whose  mind  and  body  grow  to- 
gether, neither  at  the  expense  of  either;  so  that  he  was  able 
to  make  the  best  use  of  his  strength.  He  would  spend  hours, 
for  instance,  hardening  the  back  of  his  hand  against  the  barn- 
door if  somebody  told  him  (as  somebody  did)  that  the  Jap- 
anese jiu-jitsu  men  could  strike  a  more  terrible  blow  with  that 
member  flattened,  than  could  their  American  rivals  with  said 
member  enfisted. 

And,  having  hardened  it,  he  would  go  forth  casually,  pre- 
tending to  himself  it  was  for  the  sheer  pleasure  of  walking; 
but  hoping,  nevertheless,  that  something  would  happen  which 
would  satisfy  his  conscience  sufficiently  to  allow  him  to  test 
the  worth  of  the  jiu-jitsu  theory. 

Like  all  boys  with  the  ability  to  enforce  their  commands, 
just  or  unjust,  Arnold  rejoiced  in,  and  at  times  was  pestered 


10  God's  Man 

by,  a  variety  of  henchmen;  a  sufficient  number  to  insure  the 
future  Reverend  a  congregation  should  other  sources  fail.  By 
the  time  we  begin  to  make  his  acquaintance  in  the  flesh  he  had 
left  the  great  majority  of  these  behind.  Only  two  had  re- 
mained loyal  enough,  or  competent  enough,  or  of  good  enough 
address,  or  with  parents  who  had  money  enough,  to  follow  him 
to  Old  King's  College,  where  we  glimpse  him  for  part  of  a  day, 
Hie  week  before  he — and  they — were  expelled. 

It  was  loyalty  in  the  case  of  Archie  Hartogensis,  who  had 
long  yearned  for  Yale ;  where  that  patrician,  by  instinct,  the 
good  Squire  Benjamin  Hartogensis,  Justice  of  the  Peace, 
country  gentleman,  and  son  of  many  tavern-keeping  Harto- 
gensisi  conveniently  forgot,  would  willingly  have  sent  him; 
since  there  he  would  have  met  the  sons  of  many  other  patri- 
cians, with  or  without  patrician  ancestors. 

It  was  loyalty  in  the  case  of  Hugo  "Waldemar,  son  of  that 
other  patrician,  the  former  peasant  Ivan  Yladimirovitch,  now 
known  as  "the  Honnible  Johnnie"  in  that  bailiwick  that  had 
sent  him  to  the  Legislature.  For  Hugo  had  a  certain  curiosity 
concerning  physics  and  chemistry  which  might  have  led  to 
something  had  it  not  been  clearly  impracticable  for  a  future 
Reverend  to  prepare  for  his  Reverendship  by  attending  the 
Boston  Tech.  And,  if  not  so  clearly,  it  was  quite  as  imprac- 
ticable for  his  present  Reverendship's  purse  to  pay  the  price 
of  his  son's  admittance  into  the  ranks  of  the  "Little  Brothers 
of  the  Rich."  So  no  Yale  for  Arnold,  either. 

Besides,  there  was  the  L'Hommedieu  tradition — there  had 
been  a  L'Hommedieu  at  Old  King  James'  (the  "Old"  was 
silent  then),  since  some  incensed  Jacobites  founded  that  Uni- 
versity to  compete  with  the  Usurpers'  memorial,  "William 
and  Mary's  " ;  that  is  to  say,  some  time  early  in  the  eighteenth 
century.  Ever  since  each  L'Hommedieu  had  been  gladdened 
in  turn  by  the  proximity  of  the  old  Parsonage  to  such  a  first- 
rate  seat  of  theological  learning.  .  .  .  Even  Arnold  in- 
sisted it  was  first-rate. 

And  perhaps  it  was.     It  was  small  though,  and  the  aristo- 


The  Chevying  of  Quivvers          11 

crats  of  New  Amsterdam  lineage,  whose  forefathers  were  not 
allowed  to  enter  their  sons  there  because  they  were  beneath 
the  rank  of  an  "Esquire,"  now  turned  up  their  noses  at  it 
and  found  it  "cheap,"  too.  But  folk  of  an  inquiring  turn 
of  mind  might  have  noticed  that  a  number  of  text-books  used 
in  the  Greek  and  Latin  courses  of  other  colleges  and  uni- 
versities bore  on  their  title-pages  "B.  A.'s"  and  "L.L.  D.'s" 
obtained  at  King  James'.  And  its  "Head/*  an  "M.  A., 
Oxon,"  was  esteemed  the  best  classical  scholar  in  America, 

He  said  he  preferred  King  James'  because  it  gave  him  the 
most  leisure  for  his  own  studies,  and  because  the  little  village 
of  Cyprus,  in  which  it  was  ensconced,  was  like  a  bit  of  Old 
England.  Indeed,  there  were  in  Cyprus  besides  King  James' 
many  other  Jacobean  buildings  in  twilight  gray. 

II.   AND  WHY  THEY  CHEVIED  QUIVVERS 

It  was  in  their  last  year  at  Old  King's,  and  after 
three  terms  of  studies  earnestly  pursued — for  Arnold  had 
welded  his  own  and  his  friends'  future  careers  into  a  most 
harmonious  whole — that  an  alien  intruded  himself  upon  our 
little  community  of  three.  No  one  of  them  was  ever  again 
heard  to  credit  the  theory  of  "Free  Will." 

For  they  could  in  no  way  be  blamed,  justly,  for  what  they 
did.  Although  two  of  the  three  fathers  cared  no  whit  for 
that,  and  for  long  after  blamed  them  readily  and  stormily  and 
incessantly,  and  visited  their  wrath  upon  them.  Only  the 
Reverend  Jorian,  Arnold's  father,  sympathized.  Yet  his 
hopes  for  his  son  were  those  most  sorely  crushed.  But  he 
could  see  that  the  act  by  which  they  terminated  their  college 
careers  was  one  as  unselfish  and  as  devoted  as  any  that  had 
hitherto  made  him  proud  to  be  the  father  of  one,  and  the 
foster-father  of  our  other  two,  Musketeers. 

Jorian  L'Hommedieu,  himself,  the  gentlest  and  most  for- 
bearing of  men,  found  it  hard  not  to  hate  the  slimy  reptile 
who  had  dragged  his  soiling  person  across  the  well-planned 


12  God's  Man 

futures  of  "his  boys/'  Afterward  he  was  to  understand  that 
they  were  destined,  and  particularly  Arnold,  for  higher  pur- 
poses than  remaining  quietly  in  their  birthplace. 

But  enough  of  that  now.  All  in  good  time.  Let  us  con- 
sider the  noisome  one.  Nor  blame  him  too  much,  remember- 
ing the  kind  of  parents  he  had.  (The  kind  we  need  waste 
no  time  over.)  Also  remembering  that  the  pendulum  must 
swing  far  to  the  left  if  it  would  go  far  to  the  right ;  and  that 
certain  future  good  could  not  have  been  had  Quivvers  not 
been  evil. 

And  he  was  evil,  right  enough;  born  crooked,  withal  an 
artful  oily  beggar,  with  a  trick  of  getting  your  confidence 
and  betraying  it,  which  in  school  and  college  is  called  "sneak- 
ing" and,  in  modern  business — in  which  Quiwers  afterward 
shone — "smart." 

He  early  discovered  opportunity  for  this  smartness  when 
he  found  that  many  of  his  fellow  students  took  small  financial 
interests  in  the  horse-racing  that  then  flourished  in  many 
parks  around  and  about  Xew  York  City.  And  there  was  a 
galoon,  as  near  the  bounds  of  Old  King's  as  laws  and  regula- 
tions permitted,  where  bets  were  transmitted  by  telephone  to 
a  large  pool-room  in  town.  Quivvers  could  see  no  reason  why 
the  saloonkeeper  should  enjoy  this  royal  privilege  exclusively, 
so  he  opened  negotiations  with  another  and  larger  pool-room, 
becoming  its  official,  but  secret,  agent  in  the  college ;  and  soon 
had  profitably  outdistanced  his  rival,  the  saloonkeeper — too 
profitably  by  far. 

The  scheme  was  a  simple  one  and  would  have  won  him 
plaudits  in  that  tricky  business  world,  where,  afterward,  he 
figured.  It  was  to  circulate  tips  on  horses  that  had  not  a 
ghost  of  show  and,  receiving  the  money,  pocket  instead  of 
betting  it,  taking  the  one  chance  in  a  hundred  that  the  horses 
would  win. 

Trouble  had  come  for  the  Three  Musketeers  when  "The 
Jinx"  took  a  desperate  chance  with  his  last  ten  dollars ; 
"Jinx"  for  obvious  reasons;  the  boy  had  never  had  any  luck 


The  Chevying  of  Quivvers          13 

at  anything,  although  there  was  nothing  on  which  he  would 
not  bet — football,  baseball,  cricket,  even  alien  and  distant 
polo  matches.  Quivvers  had  more  of  The  Jinx's  money  than 
that  of  any  dozen  others;  and  The  Jinx — a  pale  harassed 
little  freshman — was  facing  permanent  withdrawal  from  col- 
lege life  and  incarceration  in  his  father's  shoe  factory,  "to 
begin  at  the  bottom,"  the  lowest  of  unskilled  labor,  if  his 
father  received  any  more  overdue  tradesmen's  bills.  And 
beginning  with  the  New  Year,  then  only  a  week  off,  many 
such  bills  would  be  presented  him,  for  Quivvers  had  a  purse 
more  than  usually  swollen  with  the  allowances  of  Jinx's  father 
that  should  have  gone  to  tailor,  hatter  and  bookseller. 

Jinxy  must  have  been  desperate,  any  one  could  see  that, 
when  he  would  take  a  forty-to-one  chance  on  a  horse  of  whom 
nothing  more  favorable  was  known  than  that  he  had  once 
given  a  surprising  performance  on  a  rainy  day.  "Poor  Jinx's 
laying  that  'sawbuck'  the  track'll  be  muddy,"  Archie  had  said, 
shaking  his  head  at  sight  of  the  drawn  harried  face. 

It  was  pretty  generally  agreed  that  poor  Jinxy  had  the 
proverbial  snowball's  chance — college  boys  are  not  brilliant  at 
metaphor.  Arnold,  particularly,  was  sorry  to  lose  him. 
Jinxy,  while  not  a  pal  in  the  sense  of  Archie  Hartogensis 
or  Hugo,  was  his  one  literary  sympathizer,  as  opposed  to  all 
those  others  of  the  college  weekly,  who  worshiped  at  utilita- 
rian shrines  in  literature  or  else  sat  at  the  feet  of  the  cynics. 
The  first  wanted  to  learn  how  best  to  turn  words  into  dollars, 
the  second  how  to  achieve  reputations  at  the  expense  of  in- 
ferior souls. 

Arnold  and  The  Jinx  alone,  of  all  the  youths  who  wrote 
for  The  Green  Bag — as  the  Old  King's  College  weekly  was 
called — sought,  in  Arnold's  phrase,  "to  express  the  true  in 
terms  of  the  beautiful."  And,  though  Arnold's  stuff  had  the 
most  truth,  Jinxy's  had  a  beauty  more  easily  recognized, 
the  beauty  that  comes  from  love  and  a  close  study  of  the  clas- 
sics. Vergil's  Bucolics,  Homer,  Ovid,  Aristophanes,  Aris- 
totle, Plato,  Xenophon,  Caesar,  Petronius,  Marcus  Aurelius — 


14  God's  Man 

these  were  not  schoolbooks  to  The  Jinx,  but  more  delightful 
than  Arabian  Nights'  Entertainments.  He  would  sooner  find 
lyrical  English  for  them  than  read  the  most  enthralling  ro- 
mance. Where  the  son  of  a  middle-class  manufacturer  of 
boots  and  shoes  developed  such  tastes  is  food  for  the  students 
of  heredity,  but  here  he  was,  the  born  classical  scholar.  To 
take  him  away  from  his  books  was  not  only  to  deprive  the 
world  of  future  critical  studies  of  value  but  of  English  ver- 
sions of  great  beauty  as  well — work  that  the  world  could 
hardly  afford  to  lose,  in  order  to  gain  an  impecunious  race- 
track follower,  a  spendthrift,  a  gambler.  For  certainly  The 
Jinx  would  follow  one  strong  leaning  or  the  other ;  he  would 
work  in  no  shoe  factory. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Arnold  had  watched  witli 
anxious  interest  for  the  results  of  a  race,  trudging  into  town 
with  the  sad-eyed  Jinx  and  his  fellow  Musketeers.  And 
for  the  first  time,  when  the  results  went  up  on  The  Echo 
bulletin  board,  did  he  feel  the  necessity  for  loud  congratula- 
tions. The  weather  at  Latonia  had  been  as  though  it  real- 
ized the  grave  issue  that  depended  on  its  satisfactory,  or  un- 
satisfactory, behavior,  and  the  undistinguished  forty-to-one 
shot,  cheered  by  favorable  surroundings,  had  romped  past  the 
Judges  with  the  other  contestants  behind  her.  Jinxy  was 
saved  to  the  glory  of  classical  literature,  and  swore  in  tearful 
tones,  to  take  his  second  breath  as  God-given  forgiveness;  to 
bet  BO  more.  For  Arnold,  now  that  things  were  no  longer 
awry,  had  delivered  himself  plainly  of  the  choice  The  Jinx 
must  make. 

"It's  either  doing  the  work  you  like  best  all  your  life,  or 
spending  your  time  with  people  who  think  Vergil  is  a  foreign 
name  for  a  very  young  girl.  .  .  .  What  a  pity  a  fine  ani- 
mal like  the  horse  should  have  such  rotten  press  agents.  And, 
look  here,  Jinxy,  do  you  know  my  definition  of  what  they  call 
a  'sucker?'  A  man  who  plays  another  man's  game.  The 
bookmakers'  wives  wear  diamonds,  the  Casino  at  Monte  Carlo 
builds  marble  palaces  and  pays  the  King  five  million  a  year — 


The  Chevying  of  Quivvers          15 

they  don't  do  that  by  losing,  do  they?  There's  only  one 
successful  way  to  gamble — own  the  game.  And  your  game 
is  understanding  words,  not  figures.  You've  pulled  out  this 
once — " 

But  had  he  ?  "My  luck.  Thought  it  was  too  good  to  be 
true — for  me,"  The  Jinx  had  said  wearily,  viewing  a  gray 
prospect  of  a  life  where  a  love  of  Latin  and  Literature  was 
unknown.  For  profusely  apologetic  Quivvers  told  him  he 
hadn't  had  the  heart  to  throw  away  the  last  money  the  poor 
Jinxy  had,  and  there  it  was — the  original  ten.  It  happened 
in  the  Three  Musketeers'  study,  where,  after  searching  the 
college  for  him,  strong-armed  Hugo  had  escorted  the  apolo- 
gist, grimly. 

"Wanted  me  to  bring  the  ten.  Said  he  hadn't  the  heart," 
exclaimed  Hugo,  with  increasing  grimness.  He,  good-na- 
tured, simple  one  though  he  was,  had  nevertheless  the  de- 
cided conviction  that  something  was  radically  wrong.  To 
find  Quivvers  in  chapel,  of  all  places — he  who  boasted  openly 
of  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  works  of  Ingersoll  and 
Paine,  and  who  felt  he  had  thoroughly  demolished  the  Chris- 
tian religion  by  proving  that  the  whale's  small  throat  would 
have  prevented  his  swallowing  Jonah — to  find  this  heretic 
staring  raptly  at  a  stained  glass  Madonna  after  Botticelli — 
he  in  whose  room  hung  the  sort  of  chromos  given  away  as 
prizes  for  cigarette  coupons;  such  things  were  suspicious. 
And,  after  turning  over  abstract  suspicion  and  gazing  pro- 
foundly at  its  bottom,  Hugo  had  concluded,  with  no  respect 
to  the  cunning  of  Quivvers,  that  the  young  gentleman  had 
done  such  an  obviously  clumsy  bit  of  cheating  as  to  retain 
three  hundred  and  ninety  dollars  of  Jinxy's  winnings.  And 
he  said  so. 

"Fork  out.  Come  on,"  he  said,  shaking  Quivvers.  "Fork." 
The  pseudo  betting-commissioner  emitted  a  snarl  of  annoy- 
ance at  the  heaviness  of  his  captor's  hand. 

"You  ought  to  be  thrown  out  of  some  very  high  window, 
on  to  some  very  hard  rocks — no,  sharp  nails — no,  stinging 


16  God's  Man 

nettles,"  said  Archie  Hartogensis  excitedly.  "I  give  you  my 
word,  I  never  heard  of  such  a  crook  as  you,  Quiwers.  Xot 
in  all  history  is  there  such  a  slimy  snake." 

Arnold,  of  them  all,  said  nothing,  but  surveyed  Quiwers 
quietly  with  speculative  gray  eyes.  More  than  the  stolid  hut 
active  giant  of  a  Hugo,  or  the  excitable  blond  Archie,  this 
Athos  of  the  Musketeers  realized  what  Quiwers  had  done, 
and  knowing  how  vile  and  little  he  was  (for  all  his  scrubbed 
cleanliness  and  six  feet  of  height),  failed  to  find  any  words 
that  would  express  his  opinions.  Arnold  knew,  had  Jinxy 
won  and  Quivvers  held  it  back,  the  pool-room  first  must  make 
the  bet  good ;  second,  discharge  its  agent ;  and,  though  he  had 
always  despised  the  fellow,  he  gave  him  credit  for  too  much 
intelligence  to  involve  himself  in  so  patent  a  swindle.  It  was 
so  easy  to  find  a  record  of  the  bet. 

!N"o,  there  was  another  solution,  and  Arnold  found  the  truth, 
as  always,  by  surveying  all  possibilities  and  eliminating  each 
one  not  impregnable.  His  three  friends  knew  his  method? : 
he  had  worked  out  too  many  intricate  problems  in  mathe- 
matics for  them  all,  had  solved  too  many  of  their  personal 
problems  in  just  that  quiet  staring  way  of  his;  but  the  si- 
lence frightened  Quivvers. 

"See  here,  old  pal,"  the  latter  said  to  The  Jinx,  forcing 
confidence  into  his  tones.  He  had  a  pleasing  voice  and,  his 
vicious  mouth  hidden  by  a  small  mustache  a  la  mode,  a 
pleasant  face.  He  took  Jinxy's  hand.  "I'd  sooner  dive  off 
the  clock-tower  into  a  bathtub  full  of  vitriol  than  have  this 
happen.  But  I'm  your  pal — you  know  that — your  pal.  If  I 
hadn't  been  your  pal  I'd  have  let  that  money.  But  I  was 
going  to  add  a  'twenty  to  it  and  take  up  a  subscription  among 
the  other  fellows.  I'll  add  a  fifty  now."  Seeing  that  The 
Jinx — a  trustful  person  and  grateful  for  the  smallest  favor — 
was  beginning  to  regard  him  as  a  benefactor,  he  turned  to 
fields  more  difficult  to  conquer.  "How  much  can  vou  eive 
Arch?" 

Archie.  resoonrHng  to  the  sincerity  of  Quivvere'  or>en  self- 


The  Chevying  of  Quivvers          17 ' 

blaming  countenance,  veered  immediately.  "Of  all  the  nerve 
I  ever  heard  of  in  the  whole  world,  yours  is  the  worst ;  taking 
it  on  yourself  to  decide  ahout  betting  somebody  else's 
money — "  He  paused,  wondering  how  much  debt  he  dared 
incur.  Quivvers  had  turned  the  tables,  put  him  in  the 
wrong.  He  could  not  afford  to  be  less  generous,  but,  finan- 
cially, he  could  not  afford  to  be  generous  at  all.  His  attitude 
influenced  Hugo,  whose  brain  was  not  in  proportion  to  his 
giant-like  body,  although  his  heart  was.  Perhaps  he  had 
wronged  poor  Quivvers.  There  he  had  been  sitting  witli 
awed  face,  contemplating  a  sacred  picture,  and  he,  Hugo,  had 
laid  sacrilegious  hands  on  him,  when  perhaps  Quivvers  was 
meditating  devotionally  and  learning  to  abjure  the  heresies 
of  Messrs.  Paine  and  Ingersoll.  The  superstition  of  the  Rus- 
sian peasant — from  which  Hugo  was  only  a  generation  re- 
moved— smote  him  heavily. 

"I'm  sorry,  Pete,"  he  muttered.  "We  all  make  mistakes. 
I'll  put  up  a  hundred.  I'm  sorry." 

"You  needn't  be,"  said  Arnold  abruptly.  "Lock  the  door. 
Give  me  the  key.  Now,  Quivvers — " 

No  hope  here  for  appeals  with  sentimental  ism,  bluff  hearti- 
ness, fake  friendship,  to  this  creature  of  intellect.  Arnold 
had  pondered  and  now  he  understood.  "He  didn't  bet  that 
money,  boys.  He  told  the  truth." 

Arnold  paused.  But  Quivvers  knew  better  than  to  take 
heart. 

"He  wouldn't  have  returned  it,  though,  if  the  horse  had 
lost"  said  Arnold  coldly.  "That's  how  he's  bought  all  those 
new  clothes  and  stickpins  and  study  fixings.  He  never  has 
laid  that  sort  of  bet.  Just  put  the  money  in  his  pocket. 
Well,  that  was  all  right,  up  to  to-day.  The  pool-rooms  would 
have  got  the  money  anyway.  But  the  pool-rooms  would  have 
paid  when  their  judgment  was  wrong.  He  took  the  place  of 
the  pool-room.  So  he  owes  Jinxy  his  bet." 

From  his  hasty,  incoherent  jumble  of  reasseverated  friend- 
ship for  all,  especially  Arnold — "the  last  man  in  the  world  I'd 


18  God's  Man 

thought  could  think  such  a  thing"— Arnold  realized  Quivvers 
had  not  the  remotest  intention  of  fulfilling  his  obligation ;  and 
although  he  saw  trouble  foreshadowed  for  all  of  them,  Arnold 
could,  for  the  life  of  him,  do  nothing  lees.  Not  for  nothing 
had  they  been  called  the  Three  Musketeers.  Coming  up 
together  from  Havre  de  Grace  school  under  Arnold's  leader- 
ship, they  had  fought,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  against  sopho- 
more and  junior  oppression;  not  content  with  winning  free- 
dom for  themselves,  they  had  chastised  the  bullies  of  other 
helpless  freshmen,  inflicting  severe  punishment,  upsetting 
all  Old  King's  classic  traditions,  and  given  back  to  many 
their  lost  self-respect.  "One  for  all  and  all  for  one"  had 
been  their  juvenile  oath  in  the  Hartogensis  barn  when  they 
were  but  entering  their  'teens,  and  since  those  childish  the- 
atricals Arnold  had  held  them  to  it. 

They  had  brought  a  new  idea  into  the  college,  an  idea  that 
is  always  new,  although  it  was  really  novel  only  when  our 
primitive  fathers,  the  cave  men,  rose  superior  to  the  beasts  by 
believing  in  it.  Bullying  of  freshmen,  save  surreptitiously, 
had  ceased  since  the  Three  Musketeers  came  to  Old  King's 
though,  since  it  is  student  ethics  not  to  carry  tales  to  mas- 
ters, they  had  their  hands  full.  "The  strong  should  protect 
the  weak,"  Arnold  had  told  Archie  and  Hugo,  long  since  back 
in  Havre  de  Grace,  when  they  hung  spellbound  to  his  tales 
of  bygone  knightly  prowess.  He  was  never  to  be  a  preacher, 
in  the  local  sense,  as  the  Eeverend  Jorian,  his  father,  fondly 
imagined  he  would  be;  but  one  can  not  come  of  a  long  line 
of  parsons — ten  of  them  for  grandfathers — and  not  have 
preaching  in  one's  very  veins. 

And  this  was  his  sort  of  preaching — the  militant  church- 
man's, that  of  those  old  Knights  of  St.  John  and  of  Jerusa- 
lem; Knights-Hospitallers,  Knights  of  Malta.  He  was  an 
atavism;  he  was  in  fact  just  what  the  first  known  L'Hom- 
medieu  had  been  before  a  maid  had  broken  his  vows.  Six 
hundred  years  ago  that,  yet  Arnold  might  have  sat  for  his 


The  Chevying  of  Quivvers          19 

picture  when  lie  told  Hugo  to  hold  Quivvers  while  Archie 
went  through  his  pockets. 

Any  quantity  of  crumpled  bills  were  found,  despite  Quiv- 
vers'  kicks  and  threats  and  pleas  of  probity.  But  not  enough. 
"Take  his  jewelry,"  said  Arnold. 

The  pawnshops  were  still  open,  and  Archie  sped  to  town  in 
Uncle  Jabez's  ancient  hack,  while  Hugo  sat  guard  over  Quiv- 
vers, ominous  now,  for  he,  too,  had  been  betrayed  and  must 
watch  himself  like  a  hawk  lest  "the  oily  beggar  come  it  over 
him  again";  while  The  Jinx,  alarmed  by  the  sullen  silence 
into  which  Quivvers  had  fallen,  protested  that  it  did  not 
matter. 

It  was  dusk  when  Archie  returned,  and  Arnold  looked  up 
from  the  translation  at  which  he  had  been  working  steadily, 
apparently  unaware  of  Quivvers,  to  whom  he  had  not  spoken 
since  his  request  had  been  refused.  But  he  spoke  to  him  now, 
after  counting  the  money  Archie  had  brought. 

"Still  ninety  short,"  he  said.  "Wasn't  there  a  cheque-book, 
Hugo?  Give  him  a  pen.  A  cheque  for  the  balance,  Quiv- 
vers, and  if  you  stop  it  you'll  be  sorry." 

He  should  have  taken  alarm  at  the  meekness  with  which 
Quivvers  complied.  "To  you?"  he  had  asked  humbly.  Ar- 
nold nodded ;  he  was  afraid  The  Jinx  might  not  cash  it..  "And 
now,  may  I  go?"  asked  the  vanquished  one,  rising.  Arnold 
nodded  and  Hugo  opened  the  door. 

An  hour  later  they  were  all  in  the  President's  study,  the 
cheque  stared  up  at  them  accusingly  from  his  blotter;  be- 
hind him  Quivvers  with  the  air  of  an  outraged  citizen.  He 
accused  them  of  forcing  him  to  give  up  money — highway  rob- 
bery. Nothing  was  said  of  reasons  save  that  they  claimed, 
unjustly,  that  h3  owed  it.  The  point  was,  they  had  used 
force.  He  showed  the  red  marks  of  Hugo's  huge  moujik 
paws.  And  the  cheque  had  been  in  Arnold's  pocket  where 
Quivvers  had  told  the  President  it  would  be,  and  it  was  in 
Arnold's  name.  Quivvers  had  known  they  could  not  cash 


20  God's  Man 

it  until  morning;  had  thought,  too,  that  they  could  explain 
only  by  betraying  Jinxy's  activities  in  betting,  a  misde- 
meanor also  punishable  by  expulsion.  Quivvers  knew  our 
three  would  willingly  suffer  almost  anything  if  they  could 
go  free  only  at  Jinxy's  expense;  would  suffer  it  even  though 
such  silence  would  put  him,  their  hateful  enemy,  in  like  dis- 
grace. 

Not  strangely,  but  like  all  mean  souls,  he  did  not  admire 
them  for  this;  and  while  despising  them  as  idiots,  lunatics, 
"suckers,"  congratulated  himself  on  his  own  acumen. 

But  he  had  underrated  Arnold,  who  was  not  the  sort  to 
suffer  unjustly  and  give  no  punishment  in  return.  Quivvers 
had  probably  ruined  a  career  to  which  the  Eeverend  Jorian 
had  trained  Arnold's  thoughts  since  childhood — a  career  that 
was  the  duty  of  every  eldest  son  of  the  L'Hommedieus.  Ex- 
pulsion meant  he  could  never  take  his  place  in  the  pulpit  at 
Havre  de  Grace,  a  L'Hommedieu  pulpit  for  more  than  two 
centuries ;  and  all  because  it  was  vastly  more  important  than 
he  should  retain  his  honor,  protect  his  friends.  But  Quiv- 
vers should  not  remain  to  do  any  gloating,  to  flourish  by 
evil. 

Arnold  faced  the  troubled  President,  and,  since  he  could  be 
no  more  thoroughly  expelled  for  two  crimes  than  for  one,  he 
spoke  freely,  in  answer  to  a  request  for  particulars  as  to  the 
debt. 

"It  was  a  bet  on  a  horse-race,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that 
showed  he  spoke  reluctantly.  "Quivvers  is  the  agent  of  a 
pool-room — Long  Tom  Kelly's — telephone  him  if  you  don't 
believe  me,  sir." 

"We  bet  with  him,  too,"  said  Archie,  following  Arnold's 
lead,  shoulder  to  shoulder  as  always — "Waldemar  and  I.  He 
cheated  us,  sir.  L'Hommedieu  got  the  cheque  for  the  lot." 

"Yes,  sir,"  agreed  Hugo  dutifully,  and  nodding  darkly  at 
Quiwers,  who  was  clutching  at  the  back  of  the  chair. 

Quivvers  had  not  expected  this;  curiously  enough,  he  did 
not  think  they  might  use  his  own  weapons  against  him,  and 


The  Chevying  of  Quivvers          21 

the  fact  that  none  of  the  three  had  ever  placed  a  bet  with  him 
had  made  him  think  he  was  secure,  knowing  they  would  in- 
troduce no  other  names. 

"So  I'll  keep  the  cheque,  if  you  don't  mind,  sir,"  said  Ar- 
nold, withdrawing  it  from  under  the  President's  felspar  paper- 
weight. "It's  ours,  really  it  is,  sir,  and  I  know  you  must  ask 
us  to  resign  for  the  betting  if  for  nothing  else,  so  we  may  as 
well  have  this.  We  may  need  it." 

That  was  Arnold  L'Hommedieu — fixity  of  purpose,  calm, 
unswerving  loyalty  to  friends,  championship  of  the  weak 
and  hatred  for  vile  and  cunning  strength  that  misused  power. 

The  next  day  the  President  announced  after  prayers  that 
three  students  had  found  themselves  forced  to  resign;  and 
that,  he  was  sorry  to  say,  he  had  found  it  necessary  to  expel 
a  fourth,  Mr.  P  Q.  Quivvers. 


CHAPTER    THREE 


HAVRE  DE  GRACE 
OUK  MUSKETEERS  AT  HOME 

HE  Snow  Queen  honored  Long 
Island  with  a  visit  on  the  day 
of  the  boys'  return  home,  and 
the  two  hills  which  sheltered 
Havre  de  Grace,  harbor  and 
town,  were  hung  and  draped 
with  white  velvet.  Monsieur 
Jacque  Frost  had  not  been  idle 
either;  cedar  berries  were  pow- 
dered with  glistening  dust,  pine 
needles  glittered  like  little  up- 
turned spears,  and  he  had  hung 
silver-bright  swords  and  shim- 
mering daggers  wherever  there 
were  eaves  or  bushes  to  support  them. 

When  the  three  boys  met  half  an  hour  before  sunset  a 
ghostly  moon  was  beginning  to  give  to  these  weapons  from 
winter's  workshop  some  of  the  sheen  of  steel  itself.  And 
with  the  setting  of  the  sun  gray  ghosts  galloped  around  Havre 
de  Grace  chimneys,  galloped  and  galloped  until  the  wind 
whisked  them  off  to  disappear  among  those  elf -hills  that  mor- 
tals call  sand  dunes. 

"Of  course,  it  had  to  go  and  snow  and  make  us  hate  to 
leave  as  much  as  possible.     It  couldn't  have  been  rainy  and 
dismal  and  generally  rotten.     Oh,  no !" 
Thus  Archie. 


Havre  de  Grace  23 

Equally  in  character,  Arnold  said  nothing. 

"He  ought  to  be  thrown  out  of  some  very  high  window  on  to 
some  very  hard  rocks,"  said  Archie  Hartogensis  excitedly. 
"I  give  you  my  word  I  never  heard  of  such  a  mucker  as 
Quivvers." 

And  still  Arnold  said  nothing,  but  surveyed  the  other  two 
with  speculative  gray  eyes.  Yet  he  realized  more  than  either 
what  this  Quivvers  had  done  to  them.  Of  the  trio  he  would 
lose  the  most. 

"It's  a  dear  old  place  all  right,"  he  said,  finally. 

"The  best  ever,"  added  excitable  Archie. 

"And  anybody  who  says  it  isn't  ought  to  get  spectacles," 
from  Hugo. 

"A  pair  like  yours  ?"  interrupted  Arnold,  smiling. 

Hugo  grinned  sheepishly,  as  always  when  stirred  to  emo- 
tion he  was  unable  to  express  or  even  understand.  It  was 
indeed  a  dear  old  place!  Almost  the  best  ever;  for  once 
nothing  but  such  as  Archie's  exaggerations  sufficed. 

"Just  think — if  it  hadn't  been  for  Quivvers  we'd  have  in- 
herited all  that—" 

Archie  scowled  and  deliberately  turned  his  back  as,  the 
northeast  wind  waxing  with  the  waning  of  the  afternoon,  the 
mist  was  half  lifted  from  Harbor  Hill  across  the  way,  reveal- 
ing rectangular  and  hexagonal  blocks  of  white,  black-spotted 
Noah's  ark  houses,  clustered  above  and  below  the  spire  of 
L'Hommedieu  Church. 

"All  that?  Don't  be  absurd,  Archie,"  said  Arnold,  hoping" 
to  have  Archie's  wrath  turned  on  him  and  away  from  their 
misfortune. 

"All — sure!  And  you  know  it.  And  it  would  have  been 
like  one  inheriting  it — you !  'Three  souls  with  but  a  single 
thought/ " 

"Don't  be  sentimental,  Archie,"  said  Arnold,  and  led  the 
way  down  the  slope  by  what  was,  at  best,  a  goat's  path. 

"Now  if  you'd  said  three  heads  with  but  a  single  thought," 
said  Hugo  solemnly. 


24  God's  Man 

"Three— right— at  that  everything  that  amounts  to  any- 
thing is  a  sort  of  Trinity,"  conceded  Archie.  He  was  a  great 
one  at  metaphysics,  the  only  science  that  requires  no  exact- 


'Don't  he  blasphemous,  Archie,"  said  Arnold,  using  the 
same  expression  but  with  a  far  different  intonation.  Arnold's 
reverence  was  the  inheritance  of  many  centuries. 

Hugo  saw  a  storm  gathering  and  interposed:  "My  Gov- 
ernor won't  even  send  me  to  the  Boston  Tech. — no  Tech.  at 
all.  And  that  settles  me.  It  was  right  enough  at  Old  King's 

exclusive !  But  now  I've  got  to  go  to  another  'gentleman's 

college/  The  Governor's  so  crazy  for  me  to  be  a  'gentle- 
man'— as  if  I  wasn't  one." 

"All  fathers  are  crazy,"  said  Archie  sullenly,  and  for  the 
thousandth  time  that  week. 

"My  Governor  says  he's  made  the  money.  Let  me  make 
the  family." 

Archie's  sneer  threatened  to  become  a  continuous  perform- 
ance. "Oh,  I  know!  Family!" 

"Don't  be  nasty,  Archie,"  said  Arnold,  who  had  regained 
his  good  temper,  and  was  determined  Archie  should  find  his 
again,  too.  "Come  on,  you  two.  " 

They  walked  down  to  the  shore  and  seated  themselves  in 
Parson  L'Hommedieu's  power  boat. 

"He  wants  house  parties,  like  he  reads  about  in  novels; 
with  long  skinny  women  in  low-necked  dresses  and  garden 
hats,  playing  bridge,  and  Van  Doosens,  Van  Susans  and  vis- 
iting Dukes  or  Earls  or  Counts,  dressed  up  in  Norfolk  jackets 
and  blazers.  Hugo's  job  is  to  marry  a  girl  who  knows  that 
sort  by  their  first  names." 

"And  I  don't  feel  comfortable  with  that  sort,"  continued 
Hugo,  taking  the  tiller.  "The  only  girl  I  ever  wanted  to 
marry  was — " 

Arnold  desisted  from  his  attempts  to  set  the  great  iron 
wheel  in  motion.  "Haven't  I  told  you,"  he  began  ominously, 
"that—" 


Havre  de  Grace  25 

"Well,  can  I  help  it?"  asked  Hugo  desperately.  "I  just 
ean't  get  her  out  of  my  head.'' 

Up  in  the  belfry  of  L'Hommedieu  Church  a  little  light  was 
swung  out  and  up  until  it  hung  beneath  the  very  highest 
point — the  great  gold  cross.  Or  rather,  they  could  not  tell 
whether  they  saw  the  belfry  light  first  or  whether  it  was  the 
row  of  little  lights  below  that  seemed  to  burst  through  gray 
walls  and  ivy.  And  then  the  old  Dutch  bell  rang  out  its  cen- 
turies-old reminder  that  the  hour  of  evening  prayer  was  fast 
approaching. 

"How  it'll  all  end,  God  knows !"  said  Arnold  despondently. 

It  was  as  if  the  earth  had  opened  and  had  swallowed  up  all 
the  things  that  made  living  on  it  worth  while.  And  the 
precious  quality  of  all  he  was  to  lose  was  never  more  appar- 
ent than  on  such  an  evening  as  this,  when  the  falling  snow 
was  whitest  and  the  setting  sun  reddest. 

"You've  just  got  to  get  it  out  of  your  head,"  said  Arnold 
somberly;  "just  as  I've  got  to  get  the  Parsonage  out  of  my 
head,  and  go  to  New  York  and  get  a  job.  Father  put  it  up 
to  -me.  Asked  me  if  I  didn't  think  the  story  of  my  being 
expelled  wouldn't  grow  and  grow  and  be  distorted — : 

"You  just  bet  it  would,"  shrilled  Archie ;  "this  town's  full 
of  the  rottenest,  most  envious — " 

"Precisely,"  Arnold  clipped  Archie's  superlatives  short. 
"And  wouldn't  all  that  growing  and  distortion  hurt  my  in- 
fluence as  a  parson  ?  I  had  to  say  'Yes/  Especially  in  these 
days  when  the  number  of  moving-picture  houses  that  used  to 
be  churches  is  only  equaled  by  the  number  of  garages  that 
used  to  be  .  .  .  Something  like  that's  what  he  said." 

Hugo  nodded  and  looked  drearily  out  to  sea. 

"You  know  how  hard  it  is  to  get  people  to  go  to  church  any- 
way," Arnold  went  on;  "and  how  they  come  to  ours  because 
no  one  could  ever  say  anything  against  our  characters.  ]STo 
matter  if  what  we  three  did  was  right  or  not,  people  will  have 
their  nasty  little  scandals — and  if  the  person  amounts  to  any- 
thing, or  has  had  a  good  character  up  to  then,  so  much  the 


26  God's  Man 

worse.  .  .  .  Why,  before  we  know  it,  we'll  hear  that 
we  were  forced  to  resign  for  some  unspeakably  rotten  thing 
that  we  wouldn't  even  whisper  about  among  ourselves — " 

"They'd  better  not,"  interrupted  Archie  fiercely. 

"Oh,  rot !"  Arnold  cut  some  possible  heroics  short.  "Who 
can  keep  people  from  talking?  And  all  those  mill-hands  of 
your  father's,  Hugo !  You  know  how  they're  always  saying 
about  you:  'He's  no  better  than  we  are.'  And  how  your 
father  has  done  everything  to  square  their  resentment  about 
you  leaving  public  schools  for  private.  And  how  a  lot  of 
these  rats  around  here  love  to  say  rotten  things  about  us  be- 
cause we  licked  their  sons  for  being  little  rats.  And,  then, 
there's  your  father,  Arch !  .  .  .  JsTo  use  pretending  peo- 
ple like  his  English  squire  ways ;  and  making  his  tenants  and 
workmen  tip  their  hats  to  him  and  call  him  Squire,  .  .  . 
and  all  that!  And,  since  he's  become  Justice  of  the  Peace, 
a  lot  more  people  hate  him  for  sending  them  up  to  the  Eiver- 
head  jail.  Just  think  all  those  things  over  for  a  minute, 
and — why,  before  we  got  back  home  to-day  Paul  heard  it 
whispered  around  High  School  that  we'd  had  a  chorus-girl 
supper  party  in  our  rooms.  And  got  caught  at  it!  And 
were  only  allowed  to  resign  because  our  fathers  had  so  much 
influence.  Know  how  that  was  said  ?" 

He  expelled  an  angry  breath,  then  imitated  a  whining  woman : 

"Of  course,  if  they'd  been  poor  young  fellows,  they'd  have 
been  disgraced.  But  of  course  Parson's  son  .  .  .  And 
Squire's  son  .  .  .  And  Honnible  Johnnie's  son  .  .  ." 

"Yes,"  said  Hugo  ruefully;  "and  it's  because  they're  say- 
ing things  like  that — and  the  Governor's  afraid  of  losing  their 
nasty  grubby  votes — that  I'm  being  sent  away  from  old 
Havre,  too.  Otherwise  I  might  'a'  been  allowed  to  stay  and 
fuss  with  my  chemicals  over  at  the  'Works.'  He's  so  proud 
of  that  'Honnible  Johnnie'  thing  that  he  wouldn't  lose  for  me 
or  fifty  like  me.  And  he's  got  his  eye  on  Congress  now. 
Being  a  regular  certificated  Johnnie  of  an  'Honorable'  .  .  ." 


Havre  de  Grace  27 

He,  too,  breathed  contempt.  For  all  his  fraternizing  with 
his  father's  mill-hands.  And  Arnold's  politeness  and  genu- 
ine concern  for  the  welfare  of  his  father's  parishioners;  and 
Archie's  good-natured  liking  for  "Squire's"  dependents;  the 
three  were  intensely  intolerant  of  any  concessions  made  to  the 
ignorant  and  prejudiced.  They  meant  to  conduct  themselves 
with  kindness  and  firmness  allied;  giving  them  "not  what 
they  want  but  what's  good  for  them."  Alas !  for  youth's 
golden  dream  of  government;  that  never-to-be-attained 
benevolent  autocracy  that  looks  so  incredibly  easy  and  is  so 
impossibly  hard. 

".  .  .  But  why  is  your  Governor  sending  you  away, 
Arch,  when  he's  so  dead  set  against  public  opinion  .  .  . 
that's  the  mystery  to  me — " 

Archie's  opinion  of  the  "mystery"  was  thereupon  given 
with  a  certain  amount  of  profane  and,  necessarily  in  Archie's 
case,  excited  embellishment. 

"I'm  not  to  go  back  to  any  college.  I'm  to  be  put  to  work 
with  the  old-fashionedest  old  frump  that  ever  wore  an  out- 
of-date  frock-coat.  And  act  like  a  prize  Sunday-school  Eollo 
every  day  in  the  week,  for  if  I  get  sent  back  by  this  old  boy 
that  father  of  mine,  who  loves  money  better  than  the  Lord 
loves  the  Jews,  'ull  just  heave  me  through  a  different  window 
every  time  I  try  to  crawl  back  home.  It's  the  old  boy  I'm 
named  for — old  Uncle  Archie  Van  Vhroon — old  school — old 
fool— -old  manners — old  business — old  house — old  neighbor- 
hood— old  everything — the  oldest  old  man  in  New  York 
and  proud  of  it.  And  if  I  don't  act  like  I  love  everything 
that's  old  and  hate  everything  that's  new,  he'll  leave  his 
money  to  some  old  home  for  old  chumps  with  old  names  in- 
stead of  leaving  it  to  his  old  godson  and  nephew.  'Cause 
I'll  ~be  old  all  right  by  the  time  I've  stood  him  six  months. 
My  hair  'ull  be  so  white  it'll  make  Longfellow's  look  like  Ed- 
gar Allan  Poe's.  And  I'll  have  white  whiskers,  too.  Won't  take 
any  interest  in  shaving  or  anything.  Grow  'em  all  over.  Look 


28  God's  Man 

like  a  couple  of  features  peeking  out  of  an  iceberg,  island 
entirely  surrounded  by  hair.  .  .  ." 

He  might  have  gone  on  with  his  tirade,  working  himself 
into  a  new  fury  every  minute,  if  Arnold  had  not  said,  quietly, 
that  at  least  they  could  be  together  in  New  York.  At  this 
Archie's  dolefulness  took  wings.  Hitting  himself  on  the 
chest,  a  habit  he  had  when  extraordinarily  glad,  mad,  or 
sad,  he  shook  Arnold's  hand  violently. 

"I  guess  somebody  'ull  have  something  on  us,  hey?"  he 
cackled  shrilly.  "Shows,  dinners  on  Broadway,  see  the 
sights,  hear  the  sounds,  go  to  prize-fights  and  belong  to  a 
regular  bang-up  club.  I'd  rather  be  a  paving-stone  in  New 
York  than  a  diamond  anywhere  else.  It's  the  only  life  in  the 
world.  You're  in  the  primary  class  when  you're  away  from 
it.  Hey?" 

He  struck  Arnold  a  tremendous  smack  between  the  shoul- 
der-blades, then  beat  on  his  chest  with  both  fists  and  did  a 
little  dance. 

"I  suppose  you  could  run  around  with  a  girl  and  nobody 
would  know  anything  about  it — in  New  York,  couldn't  you, 
Arnold?"  asked  Hugo  hesitantly.  "I— I  think  maybe  I'll 
cut  college  altogether  and  go  with  you  two — " 

Arnold  groaned,  "That  girl  again?  Haven't  I  told  you 
time  and  time  again  that  she  was  just  using  you?  .  .  . 
What's  this  about  your  going  to  New  York,  Archie  ?" 

Archie  answered  him  with  a  scowl.  "Shipping  business. 
Me  in  business!  Can't  you  see  me?  Me,  that  hates  figures 
and  hates  offices,  and  has  always  been  looking  forward  to  all 
this."  He  waved  his  arm  around,  scowling  again.  "That 
father  of  mine's  just  the  craziest  old  bonehead  in  the  world. 
I  could  make  our  place  pay;  make  the  best  paying  farm  on 
Long  Island  out  of  it — best  in  New  York — best  in  the  world. 
And  all  that  geology  and  soils  and  crop  bulletins  I've  studied 
— know  more  about  scientific  agriculture  than  any  farmer  on 
earth,  I  do.  And  all  wasted.  You  know  what  I  could  do 
with  Exmoor  here — and  how  I  love  it — " 


Havre  de  Grace  29 

("Exmoor"  was  Squires  Hartogensis'  equivalent  for  what 
was  known  in  Sussex  County  as  Mantauket  Hill,  acquired  by 
him  with,  the  proceeds  of  two  centuries  of  inn-keeping.) 

There  was  no  need  for  Archie  to  exaggerate  now  or  to  beat 
himself  into  a  fury ;  there  was  a  catch  in  his  voice,  and,  had 
they  been  women,  he  would  have  sobbed  on  Arnold's  shoulder ; 
and  Arnold  would  have  sobbed  with  him,  and  Hugo  would 
have  blubbered  in  his  big  clumsy  way.  Did  they  know  what 
Archie  could  do  with  Exmoor  (alias  Indian  Hill)  ?  Did 
Archie  know  what  Arnold  could  do  with  the  L'Hommedieu 
church-school?  Did  Archie  and  Arnold  both  know  what 
Hugo  could  do  with  those  smoky  ugly  works  of  his  father's 
down  there,  a  blot  on  the  town?  Had  a  night  ever  passed 
since  their  last  year  of  High  School  when  they  weren't  plan- 
ning under  Arnold's  leadership  the  things  they  would  do 
to  make  Havre  de  Grace  the  model  of  its  kind  ? 

But  what  was  the  use  talking  about  that  now?  They  had 
lost  their  hold  on  Havre  de  Grace,  every  one;  as  each  gained 
from  the  gloomy  speeches  of  the  others,  Archie's  elation  being 
short-lived  when  he  saw  that  New  York  meant  to  Arnold 
nothing  less  than  imprisonment. 

"To  be  where  you  can't  have  horses  and  trees  and  green 
fields  and  things,"  said  Arnold.  His  thin  face  was  distorted 
as  he  spoke,  and  he  clenched  and  unclenched  his  slender 
hands. 

"Do  you  have  to  go?"  asked  Hugo  wistfully.  "I'll  stay 
here  if  you  do."  A  statement  Archie  did  not  resent,  for  there 
could  be  no  choice  between  him  and  their  leader. 

"What  else  can  I  do  ?"  asked  Arnold  bitterly.  "That  swine, 
Quivvers,  has  done  for  me,  right  enough.  I  can't  be  a  par- 
son with  all  my  parishioners  whispering  we  were  kicked  out 
of  college  for  some  stinking,  huahed-up  scandal.  I  told  you 
father  put  it  up  to  me.  He  wanted  me  to  go  abroad  on  a 
trip  and  decide,  and  whatever  I  thought  was  right  would  be 
right  to  him.  And  Paul  broke  down  (good  little  beggar  he 
is,  shows  it,  doesn't  he?)  Broke  down;  yes,  sir.  And  all 


30  God's  Man 

because  he'll  get  my  place,  church,  farm,  the  old  house — 
everything.  There's  not  enough  for  two." 

"And  you  decided  to  give  up  everything  ?"  asked  Archie 
in  awe. 

"What  else  could  I  Jo?"  returned  Arnold  querulously. 
"The  church  is  the  main  thing — making  people  believe.  And 
it  helps  some  in  these  days,  when  nobody  can  say  a  word 
against  the  pastor,  when  he  uses  his  own  money  to  run  the 
place  and  pays  his  own  salary.  Other  churches  lose  their 
congregations  nowadays;  the  preachers  preach  to  half-empty 
pews;  but  we  don't  and  never  have.  You  don't  think  I'd 
take  chances  with  a  heritage  like  that,  do  you  ?  Xo.  Paul's 
all  right ;  studies  hard,  too.  It's  for  the  best,  I  guess." 

"Well,  not  wishing  Paul  any  misfortune,"  said  Archie  in 
his  high  excited  voice,  "but  he  can't  ever  take  the  place  of 
about  the  best  pal  I  ever  heard  of.  Hey,  Hugo  ?" 

Hugo  nodded  and  put  his  heavy  hand  on  Arnold's  shoulder. 

"No  use  saying  it's  for  the  best,  Arnold,"  Archie  went  on. 
"It's  just  the  most  disastrous  thing  ever  happened,  that's  what 
it  is." 

Arnold  smiled.  "Don't  take  yourself  so  seriously,  Archie," 
he  advised. 

"I'm  not,"  returned  Archie  hotly;  "I'm  taking  you  seri- 
ously and  what  you  were  trainin'  us  to  do.  Look  at  this  town 
now.  We  could  hardly  wait  to  get  through  school  to  begin. 
You've  said  it  yourself  a  million  times.  Used  to  be  God's 
country,  now  it's  God-forsaken." 

"I  never  said  'God's  Country,' "  Arnold  defended  hotly. 

"With  these  factories  going  up  all  the  time,  because  we've 
got  water  power,"  Archie  continued,  ignoring  him,  "and  the 
boys  and  girls  leavin*  the  farms  and  the  fishin'  and  huntin' 
where  they  were  healthy,  and  had  healthy  children,  and  going 
to  work  in  the  factories  just  to  get  a  lot  of  ready-made  clothes 
and  cheap  junk,  and  loaf  around  picture  shows  and  joints  at 
night,  and  call  themselves  'as  good  as  anybody' — 'cause  they 


Havre  de  Grace  31 

don't  have  to  wear  overalls  and  get  their  hands  dirty.  And 
as  for  children — when  they  do  let  themselves  have  'em — 
sickly  pale  hrats  no  good  to  themselves  or  anybody.  Breed- 
ing .a  regular  slave  race.  We'd  have  stopped  that,  we  three ; 
have  run  factories  decently  or  run  'em  out.  With  your  pull 
as  pastor  and  mine  as  the  Squire's  son  and  Hugo's  as  son  of 
the  owner  of  the  biggest  factory  of  all.  It  only  takes  a  few 
big  men  to  turn  such  a  trick.  And  we'd  have  turned  it  all 
right.  Wasn't  that  what  we  were  working  for,  and  thinkin' 
about  all  the  time?  Don't  pull  that  stuff  about  it  all  bein' 
for  the  best.  To  hell  with  Paul.  What  does  he  matter  in  a 
case  like  this?  It's  the  worst  thing  ever  happened  in  the 
whole  world." 

You  are  not  to  suppose  that  the  sociology  and  economics  in 
Archie's  speech  were  his  own;  they  were  the  result  of  many 
such  speeches  by  Arnold  in  the  past,  which  had  sunk  in  and 
become  a  part  of  his  two  companions,  until  they  were  as  eager 
as  boys  for  a  new  game,  to  stanch  the  tide  that  threatened  to 
inundate  their  township  with  broken-down  laborers  and  ill- 
begotten  children. 

Arnold  had  worked  out,  and  was  still  working  at  it  in  de- 
tail when  the  expulsion  came,  a  comprehensive  scheme  of 
militancy  in  local  politics,  which,  with  his  father's  congrega- 
tion back  of  him  and  the  hundreds  of  tenants  on  Squire 
Hartogensis'  estate,  and  factory-hands  in  the  Waldemar  fac- 
tory would  have  made  the  three  masters  of  local  affairs,  and, 
when  they  had  proved  their  unselfishness  and  capabilities, 
masters  of  county  politics  as  well. 

"Gets  dark  early  these  days,  doesn't  it?"  muttered  Hugo, 
and  cursed  himself  for  his  inability  to  express  either  his  right 
to  love  whom  he  chose,  or  the  emotions  that  stirred  in  him  at 
such  sights  as  sunrise  and  sunset. 

The  long  stretch  of  harbor  was  alight,  and  as  they  drew 
nearer  it  the  low-roofed,  gray-lichened  Parsonage  seemed 
aflame  with  its  red  sage.  Another  stroke  of  the  big  motor, 


32  God's  Man 

another  sweep  or  so,  and  they  were  floating  amid  that  vast 
blackness,  the  shadows  cast  by  the  dark  green,  mass,  the  an- 
cient wood  of  the  L'Hommedieus. 

Arnold  pushed  down  the  switch  and  the  thumping  of  the 
motor  ceased  so  suddenly  they  could  hardly  believe  that  there 
had  also  been  a  cessation  of  movement. 

Evening  had  come  almost  as  suddenly.  The  clusters  of  red 
sage  above  were  black  now — black  velvet.  There  was  neither 
moon  nor  stars,  and  the  fog  sifted  down  like  snow  across  the 
path  of  the  setting  sun. 

"Reminds  me  of  that  sunset  over  there — Wolverhampton — " 
said  Archie,  awed.  "When  we  saw  Carol,  last — remember?" 

"You  never  give  us  a  chance  to  forget/'  returned  Arnold, 
smiling. 

"You  don't  need  any,"  retorted  Archie.  "You  were  around 
there  as  much  as  I  was — tell  the  truth,  now — " 

Arnold  hesitated,  but  kept  silent.  Archie,  however,  took 
no  advantage  of  his  silent  admission.  His  eyes  were  turned 
Wolverhampton  way.  And  Hugo's  toward  Manhattan.  And 
Arnold's  .  .  .  ? 

He  was  staring  over  there  at  the  ancient  wood  of  the 
L'Hommedieus,  through  which  Carol  came  to  greet  him, 
Caving  a  filmy  scarf.  And  then  it  seemed  that  they  met,  and 
he  tried  to  force  on  her  another  scarf,  less  filmy,  less  beautiful, 
in  itself;  but  one  that,  when  it  brushed  the  near-by  boughs 
and  floated  up  to  meet  the  overhead  branches,  caused  them,  all 
wintry  as  they  were,  to  burst  into  white  blossoms,  each  one  a 
bell  that  rang  out  golden  chimes. 

Just  what  all  this  meant  he  had  not  the  slightest  idea,  nor 
was  he  able  to  remember  it  in  detail  a  second  later ;  it  passed, 
as  dreams  do  sleeping  or  waking,  leaving  only  an  impression, 
an  uncomfortable  impression. 

Archie  saw  Carol,  too,  out  there  in  Sunset  Land,  saw  her 
where  he  had  seen  her  last— at  Wolverhampton  (Wolf  Inlet 
before  the  Brooks-Catons  bought  it  and  built  there).  And 
she  was  running,  too.  But  because  the  Hartogensisi  were  a 


Havre  de  Grace  3,3 

family  that  had  never  heard  any  chimes  except  the  chink  of 
cash — and  because  they  had  ceased  to  beat  their  women-folk 
before  discovering  how  to  evoke  their  respect  instead  of  pro- 
voke their  fear — Carol  did  not  come  to  Archie  as  to  Arnold, 
but  seemed  to  flee  him  shyly. 

Seemed,  indeed! 

But  Archie  was  as  little  likely  to  know  this  as  Hugo  was 
to  know  that  the  face  of  Miss  Beulah  Eoberts — Bobbie 
Beulah,  Merry  Whirl  Company,  No.  2 — the  face  that  he  saw 
out  there,  was  not  so  modest  as  the  moss-violet,  or  so  pale  and 
pretty  as  the  water-lily  she  seemed  to  him.  .  .  . 

As  is  the  custom  with  men  when  their  work  has  failed  them, 
or  when  they  think  it  has,  the  thoughts  of  our  Three  Mus- 
keteers had  turned  to  man's  other  heritage:  woman.  To 
Arnold,  they  were  fascinating  countries  unexplored,  to  Archie 
and  to  Hugo,  strange  shrines  in  far-off  lands.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER   FOUR 

ARISTOCRATS 
I.  SQUIRE  HARTOGENSIS  RECEIVES  A  PROPOSITION 

HILE  their  sons  were  recov- 
ering from  their  sentimental 
debauch,  and  were  landing  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Harbor  to 
climb  the  steep  hill  to  L'Hom- 
medieu  Parsonage,  the  son  of 
many  centuries  of  tavern-keep- 
ing Hartogensisi  sat  with  the 
son  of  many  centuries  of  earth- 
tilling  peasants,  in  the  for- 
mer's stately  mahogany  and 
teakwood  dining-room  at  Har- 
togensis  Hall.  John  Waldemar 
sat  enthroned  in  a  massive  chair  at  the  foot  of  the  table,  filled 
with  a  genuine  admiration  for  the  aristocratic  air  and  gentle 
appearance  of  his  host,  who,  in  a  chair  equally  massive,  sat  at 
the  head,  a  footman  in  livery  passing  dishes,  a  butler  with 
metal  buttons  on  a  striped  waistcoat,  cooling  the  wine. 

The  "Honnible  Johnnie"  was  agreeing  with  the  Squire  as 
to  the  insolence  of  Havre  de  Gracians.  He,  more  than  Har- 
togensis,  had  suffered  from  these  temerarious  townsmen.  At 
least  there  were  many  who  respected  the  Squire,  owner  of  so 
much  land,  landlord  of  so  many  citizens.  But  the  "Honnible 
Johnnie"  must  depend  for  his  political  support  on  the  ig- 


Aristocrats  35 

norant  and  illiterate;  to  gain  their  good-will  he  must  keep 
alive  a  hearty  pretense  of  equality. 

Actually  it  was  no  more  than  half-pretense.  For  all  hia 
sins,  he  had  at  least  the  quality  of  camaraderie.  But  just  now 
it  pleased  the  Boss  to  agree  with  the  aristocratic  Squire;  he 
had  need  of  the  Squire  in  the  near  future,  and  wanted  to  pre- 
pare the  way  for  a  "proposition"  of  which  you  are  soon  to  hear. 

"The  idear,"  he  made  remark.  "A  fellow  like  me  that's 
got  big  properties  and  employs  hundreds  of  men  here  and  in 
the  city  has  got  to  stand  for  that  kind  of  stuff  if  he  wants  to 
be  elected.  Actually  send  his  own  son  away  from  home.  It 
jest  shows  you,  Squire,  what  a  state  the  country's  in  when  a 
man  of  my  position's  got  to  act  that  way  to  get  votes.  'Lots 
of  times/  I  says  to  myself,  'I'd  like  to  be  the  Squire,  who 
treats  'em  like  they  oughta  be  treated.'  But  it's  different  with 
you,  Squire.  Your  old  man  left  you  money,  you're  an  inde- 
pendent coMntTj- gentleman.  My  boy  Hugo  'ull  be  the  same 
and  so  'ull  I,  when  I  get  through  with  politics.  But  jest  now 
I  can't  afford  it.  There's  a  lot  of  army-contracts — Bureaus 
of  Medicine  and  Surgery  and  what-not  that've  been  promised 
me  if  I  get  my  seat  in  the  House.  And  Department  of  Agri- 
culture chemical  contracts  .  .  .  and  lots  of  others,  too. 
What's  more,  these  here  Federal  snoopers  won't  be  investi- 
gatin'  my  books  and  shipments,  and  all  that  part  of  the  busi- 
ness I've  built  up  from  the  time  I  was  a  pedler.  One  of  the 
biggest  parts  of  my  business  'ull  go  to  smash  under  these  new 
laws  they're  considering,  unless  I  get  into  Congress.  I  never 
told  you,  did  I,  partner  ?" 

The  wine  seemed  to  be  warning  him  to  indiscretion;  but, 
actually,  it  was  not. 

"Told  me  what?"  asked  Hartogensis  refilling  the  glasses. 
Waldemar  took  the  churchwarden  clay  extended  him.  To 
look  at  them,  rosy-gilled  and  rubicund,  with  the  accessories 
of  long  pipes,  port  wine  in  crystal  decanters,  the  long  witch- 
faces  of  the  candles  on  the  long  mahogany,  the  dark  wain- 
scoted walls  hung  with  ancient  oils  and  eighteenth-century 


36  God's  Man 

sporting  prints,  was  to  imagine  an  English  country-house,  a 
hunting  squire  of  parts  and  a  Corinthian  neighbor. 

"How  I  got  my  start/'  returned  Waldemar  jovially.  "I 
wouldn't  tell  it  to  nobody  but  you,  Squire.  To  tell  the  truth, 
I  wouldn't  V  told  it  to  you.  For  a  long  time  I  was  afraid 
you  wasn't  a  good  fellow;  you  know,  broadminded." 

He  held  the  bowl  of  churchwarden  pipe  over  one  of  the 
candles,  and  the  tobacco  alight,  beamed  jovially.  "Nothing 
like  a  good  warm  fire  and  tobacco  and  drink  handy  and  look- 
ing back  on  the  days  when  you  was  on  the  outside  looking  in. 
Say,  Squire,  many's  the  time  I  used  to  stand  tiptoe  and  rubber 
into  some  of  them  old  houses  around  Washington  Square  and 
lower  Fifth  Avenue — that  was  the  swell  neighborhood  then. 
Which  you  oughta  know,  being  one  of  the  old  families. 

"Yes,  sir"  he  added,  having  waited  for  the  Squire  to  con- 
firm these  ancestral  antecedents.  "And  I  always  said  when 
I  got  money,  I'd  have  a  house  like  that  with  an  open  fire  and 
all.  .  .  .  Well,  I  got 'em,  all  right." 

The  wine  lifted  its  voice  and  contradicted  his  approving 
note.  Waldemar  took  another  glass  of  port. 

"Great  idear,  these  long  pipes;  makes  a  cool  sweet  smoke, 
as  they  say  in  the  'ads/  .  .  .  But  like  I  was  telling  you 
as  to  how  I  got  my  start.  Peddling  little  pill-boxes.  Quarter 
the  boz ;  and  they  didn't  cost  me  more'n  a  nickel.  Some  profit, 
hey?  I  saved  enough  in  five  years  to  buy  out  an  old  drug- 
store man  who  was  retiring,  hired  a  drug-clerk  with  a  diploma 
for  twelve  a  week,  and  went  around  to  my  customers  telling 
'em  to  come  to  my  drug-store.  I  wouldn't  sell  'em  what  they 
wanted  less'n  they  bought  other  stuff  offn  me — said  I  was 
afraid  of  the  police.  Built  up  a  great  business  thataway.  Got 
to  be  known  all  over  town.  Kept  open  all  night,  used  to  sleep 
under  the  counter.  Believe  me,  partner,  I  deserve  all  7  got. 
It  just  shows  you  what  opportunities  there  is  in  America  for 
a  young  fellar  who'll  work.  Yes,  and  save,  and  not  have 
women  and  bad  habits.  I  never  drunk,  I  never  smoked,  I 


Aristocrats  37 

never  even  had  a  girl,  until  I  was  way  past  thirty.  And  as 
for  the  stuff  in  the  little  pill-boxes  .  .  .  ." 

He  winked — "I  saw  too  much  of  what  that  done  to  my  cus- 
tomers. But  if  I  didn't  sell  it  some  one  else  would,  wouldn't 
they?  But  if  you  asked  these  Socialists  and  Anarchists  and 
winners  to  do  what  I  done,  how  many  would  do  it?  The 
country's  all  right,  say  I,  it's  the  people  in  it  that  ain't  any 
good.  This  here  Socialism  now  .  .  ." 

He  spat  in  disgust. 

"They'd  keep  a  man  from  building  up  a  legitimate  busi- 
ness !  What's  the  use  of  working  and  scringing  and  saving  if 
you  ain't  allowed  to  make  good  ?  Makes  me  sick." 

The  Squire  had  listened  in  some  distaste,  but  he  was  re- 
strained from  showing  any  sign  of  it  by  a  most  unwelcome 
memory  of  his  childhood  at  the  Yew  Tree  Inn,  which,  fallen 
somewhat  in  the*quality  of  its  customers,  had  been  partly 
dependent  on  its  side-door  trade,  where  negroes  and  the 
poorer  whites  were  accommodated  with  inferior  beer  and  rot- 
gut  whisky. 

"As  I  see  it,"  he  said,  exorcising  this  memory,  "those  who 
amount  to  anything  will  raise  themselves.  Those  who  won't 
don't  deserve  any  pity.  Life  has  changed  since  the  old  days. 
To-day  every  one  has  equal  opportunity.  If  they  don't  take 
advantage  of  it,  are  we  to  blame?  Shall  we  be  responsible? 
I  wouldn't  mind  if  they  were  like  they  were  in  my  grand- 
father's day — respectful  to  their  superiors,  and  all.  But  if 
they  won't  be,  they  can  go  to  the  devil.  That's  my  way  of 
looking  at  it.  And  they'd  better  beware  how  they  alienate  the 
sympathy  of  the  better  classes.  In  fifty  years  more  we'll  be 
in  a  position  to  compel  their  deference  again  as  in  my  grand- 
father's day." 

He  had  conveniently  forgotten  that  his  grandfather  had 
been  one  of  the  most  deferential. 

"N"o  doubt  they've  forgotten  that  only  a  few  hundred  years 
ago  they  wore  iron-collars  around  their  necks  with  the  name 


38  God's  Man 

of  their  masters  on  'em.  We  were  sorry  for  them,  though,  and 
took  the  collars  off.  And  look  how  they've  behaved!  Look 
at  the  French  Revolution !  There's  gratitude  for  you." 

It  might  have  been  imagined  that,  the  iron-collar  stage  hav- 
ing survived  in  Eussia  until  the  day  of  Waldemar's  grand- 
father (who  had  worn  one),  the  Honnible  Johnnie  might  have 
been  moved  to  remonstrance.  But  he,  like  the  Squire,  had  a 
convenient  memory.  He  nodded  emphatically. 

"As  I  see  it,  life's  a  game  with  certain  rules  for  playing  it," 
he  said.  "Then  there's  three  kinds  of  players — them  that's 
afraid  to  take  a  chance,  them  that  takes  a  chance  and  loses, 
them  that  takes  a  chance  and  wins.  The  first  kind  don't 
amount  to  shucks — they're  like  sheep — let  people  shear  'em 
and  brand  'em  and  just  keep  yelling  'Baa-a,  baa-a.'  The  sec- 
ond kind's  got  nerve  all  right  but  not  brains.  They  try  to 
get  up  but  only  get  in  jail.  The  third  kind  does  a  lot  of  the 
things  the  second  kind  does,  but  they  figure  things  out.  And 
the  second  kind  call  that  luck.  It  ain't  luck,  Squire,  it's 
brains.  The  ones  that  get  caught  ain't  got  any  brains, 
thaf  s  all.  You  got  to  learn  how  to  play  the  game  according 
to  the  rules.  What's  the  rules  ?  The  Law.  Before  I  bought 
my  first  place,  that  little  Seventh  Avenue  drug-store,  I  went 
to  see  my  Alderman  and  got  him  to  go  partners  with  me.  He 
even  put  up  part  of  the  money.  I  knew  there  was  a  hundred 
per  cent,  profit  in  the  business,  but  I  didn't  try  to  hog  it  all. 
There  was  the  Law  and  the  Law  had  to  be  looked  after.  An- 
other fellow  tried  the  same  game  and  got  raided.  Why  ?  Be- 
cause he  gave  policemen  money.  That's  bribery,  and  bribery 
don't  pay.  Mine  was  a  legitimate  business  deal." 

Whether  or  not  this  unethical  unbosoming  was  ingenuous 
or  ingenious,  no  mere  historian  may  say.  It  is  possible,  as 
others  have  observed  even  from  antiquity,  that  he  whose 
major  occupation  is  delusion  may  in  time  come  to  delude  him- 
self. This  particular  self-deluder  then  leaned  back  and  took 
more  port  with  an  almost  devout  air. 

"Now  that  other  fellow — Simoney  was  his  name,"  he  ex- 


Aristocrats  39 

plained  further,  "he  braced  me  for  a  dollar  only  the  other 
day.  And  he  had  a  bigger  drug-store  than  mine  and  a  durned 
sight  better,  too.  But  he  didn't  study  the  game,  didn't  learn 
the  rules.  And  all  the  good  it  did  him  was  five  years  or  some- 
thing when  one  of  these  here  Uplifts  got  after  him.  He's 
working  for  me  now,  taking  orders  from  East  Side  doctors. 
.  .  .  They  do  a  great  drug  business,  those  kikes,  and  it's 
getting  so  they  have  to  do  it  with  me.  There's  quite  a  trade 
in  laudanum  since  the  police  started  shaking  down  the  hop- 
joints  so  much.  The  'White  Stuff's*  on  the  up-and-up  too. 
We  got  together  the  other  day,  Justus  and  old  Urquhart  and 
some  of  the  rest  of  us  wholesalers,  and  skyrocketed  it  (mor- 
phine, you  know).  Just  doubled  prices.  We  used  to  get  sev- 
enty-five cents  for  a  hundred  cubes  of  the  unrefined,  ninety- 
five  for  the  same  in  pressed  hypo  tablets,  half-grains,  that  is. 
We  raised  it  to  a  dollar  and  a  half  the  cubes,  two  dollars  the 
tablets.  .  .  ." 

He  laughed  with  the  pleasure  of  one  who  is  attaining  his  ob- 
ject, for  a  greedy  look  had  come  into  the  Squire's  eyes. 

"There  was  plenty  of  kicks,"  Waldemar  agreed,  in  answer 
to  a  question,  "but  I  notice  sales  keep  right  on  mountin'  up. 
Why,  I  had  to  take  on  another  workman  in  our  instrument- 
branch — which,  between  you  and  me,  ain't  nothing  but  the 
artillery  branch.  Guns,  you  know." 

He  laughed  boisterously  this  time.  The  greedy  look  on  the 
Squire's  face  had  given  way  to  one  of  curiosity. 

"  'Arms  and  ammunition' — that's  my  little  joke,"  Walde- 
mar explained.  "Morphine  and  cocaine  are  ammunition; 
'guns' — that  is,  'hypos',  hypodermic  syringes — arms.  Course 
we  bluff  at  making  other  instruments;  I've  got  a  case  full  of 
probes  and  bougies  and  tweezers  and  scalpels  and  pretty  nearly 
everything  else  in  the  surgical  line.  But  we  never  make  'em. 
I  should  say  not.  'Get  the  money' — that's  my  motter. 
And  there's  no  money  in  professional  instruments — not 
enough  sold  and  too  much  competition.  But  when  these  here 
drug-habits  started  getting  good,  I  see  the  demand  for  a  good 


40  God's  Man 

cheap  syringe  coming — not  the  four-dollar  solid  piston  kind 
the  doctors  use,  but  one  to  sell  at  a  dollar  and  give  a  profit." 

The  Squire  asked  another  question.  Waldemar  disagreed 
scornfully. 

"The  four-dollar  one — naw ! — no  profit  a  tall !  Xot  a  tall ! 
Has  to  be  heavy  and  solid  to  get  the  suction  and  keep  the  air- 
bubbles  out.  But — here's  'nother  of  my  idears  ! — jest  put 
some  gooey  stuff  in  the  barrel  and  you  get  the  suction  as  good 
as  the  solid  syringe.  .  .  .  One  of  these  here  Socialist 
workmen  quit  me  on  account  of  it,  though;  said  the  gooey 
stuff  meant  pumping  poison  and  disease  right  inter  the  blood. 
Sich  ignorance!  As  if  the  drug  injection  wasn't  strong 
enough  to  kill  anything  else.  .  .  ." 

He  waved  his  relighted  pipe  with  a  triumphant  air,  and 
as  he  approached  the  business  of  the  evening  his  enthusiasm 
was  contagious. 

"And  then  the  biggest  of  all  and  growing  every  day — 
cocaine.  "Why,  down  South  in  the  Prohibition  states  where 
they've  closed  the  saloons  and  where  these  niggers  and  poor 
whites  'uve  been  in  the  habit  of  getting  drunk  every  Sattiday 
night,  we  jest  can't  supply  the  demand.  I'll  have  to  run  up 
another  shack  here  in  a  year  or  so  and  take  over  a  bigger 
building  in  the  city— or  build  one  with  warehouses  to  suit. 
Building  'ud  be  better  if  I  was  there  with  the  cash.  And 
that's  where  you  come  in  sometime,  Squire,  if  you're  looking 
for  a  forty  per  cent,  business  investment.  All  I  ask  you  is,  run 
up  to  town  with  me  some  day  and  look  over  my  books.  If 
that  don't  convince  you,  you'd  think  Gov'ment  bonds  was  a 
gamble.  And  don't  forget  that  where  other  fellars  have  to 
walk  an  egg-shell  tight-rope,  I'll  be  walking  on  Uncle  Sam's 
private  wall.  And,  what's  more,  I'll  be  walking  with  the 
people  who  run  things  in  this  country — although  they  need 
every  vote  in  Washington  to  do  it  with,  which  is  where  my 
drag  will  come  in.  So  if  ever  there  was  a  safe  game,  you've 
jest  been  interduced  to  it,  and  you'll  never  be  interduced  to 


Aristocrats  41 

another  like  it  if  you  live  to  be  a  million.  .  .  .  Say,  you 
cert'ny  do  look  like  that  uncle  of  yours,  Squire." 

He  nodded  toward  a  portrait  that  hung  above.  It  was  part 
of  the  "Honnible  Johnnie's"  system  of  "jollying,"  knowing  as 
he  did  that  the  Squire  fancied  a  resemblance  to  his  own 
bulbous  nose,  in  that  somewhat  swollen  pictured  feature — an 
"uncle,"  the  Squire  said,  but  did  not  add  that  the  avuncular 
relationship  came  through  his  wife.  Having  been  unduly 
eager  to  copy  the  "uncle's"  ante-bellum  attire,  Benjamin  had 
only  succeeded  in  ^achieving  an  appearance  that  smacked  of  a 
commercial  interest  in  equine  affairs.  The  frilled  shirt,  the 
studs,  the  spreading  bow,  the  waistcoat  cut  so  low  that  it 
might  have  served  with  evening  attire,  the  braided  tail-coat 
and  wide  trousers — all  helped  to  give  him  the  appearance  of 
a  prosperous  bookmaker,  the  sort  seen  at  Newmarket  and 
Epsom  Downs. 

"I  looked  over  your  Greenwich  village  property  the  other 
day,  that  Yew  Tree  Inn.  That's  why  I  wrote  you,"  said  Wal- 
demar.  With  irritating  calm,  he  again  filled  his  church- 
warden and  again  smiled.  "When  I  see  what  a  ramshackle 
old  tenement's  wasting  a  fine  piece  of  property  for  a  manufac- 
turer that  don't  want  to  advertise,  I  jest  have  to  laugh,  that's 
all.  Why,  you've  even  got  the  right  to  put  'No  thoroughfare' 
on  the  entrance  to  the  little  alley;  I  looked  up  the  deeds  at 
the  County  Clerk's.  All  of  which  is  fine  business  in  these 
days  of  Uplifts  hiring  private  detectives  to  snoop  around  and 
bribe  drivers  and  watch  wagons  loading  and  read  addresses 
on  packages.  Our  wagons  could  load  in  that  there  Rupert 
Court  and  with  'No  thoroughfare'  and  a  couple  of  gates  to  the 
Passage,  no  strangers  could  get  in.  When  I  started  thinkin' 
of  my  new  building,  I  thought  I'd  look  over  your  property 
first,  partner,  and  then  I  knew  I  didn't  need  to  look  no  far- 
ther. If  ever  there  was  a  place  made  to  order  for  what  I 
want  .  .  .  Why,  what's  the  matter,  Squire?  .  .  ." 

For  the  ruby  red  of  the  Squire's  nose  had  spread  to  his 


42  God's  Man 

other  features;  he  choked,  coughed,  spat  under  Waldemar's 
alarmed  ministrations;  and  an  ear  placed  close  to  his  mouth 
could  only  distinguish  the  damning  of  Jamesby,  his  rental 
agent. 

.  .  .  'Don't  ring,"  was  added,  as  the  Honnible  Johnnie 
reached  for  the  bell.  "It's — nothing — only — I — signed — a 
three  years' — lease — yesterday — with  a  woman  named  Mybus. 
A  damned  dirty  pawnbroker,  too." 

"Oh,  is  that  all?"  said  Waldemar,  relieved.  "That's  all 
right,  Squire.  Won't  want  to  begin  building  until  after  then 
— if  we  do,  what's  a  few  dollars  to  buy  'em  off.  .  .  . 
Cheer  up,  partner.  .  .  ." 

He  experienced  a  strange  joy  in  being  able  so  to  address  the 
aristocratic  Squire.  And  in  knowing  it  would  not  be  resented. 

"No  hurry,  partner,"  he  added  for  the  sheer  pleasure  of 
the  repetition.  "Well,  I've  got  to  leave  you  now.  Back  to 
town  to-morrow  early,  takin'  that  young  cub  of  mine  to  lick 
into  shape.  After  getting  fired  from  college,  he's  got  the 
nerve  to  talk  about  marryin'  some  chorus-girl.  .  .  .  M ar- 
ryin'  her,  mind  you !  .  .  .  Times  has  changed  since  I  was 
a  boy." 

Shaking  his  head  sadly,  over  the  depravity  of  more  modern 
youths,  he  went  his  way. 

II.  THE  ATTIC  IN  GRAMEECY  PARK 

As  to  the  results  of  that  talk  with  Hugo,  you  will  presently 
hear  enough;  more  than  enough,  possibly.  But  since  Arnold 
is  our  principal  concern,  and  it  had  been  arranged  secretly 
between  them  that  he  and  Archie  should  occupy  a  joint 
"apartment,"  if  such  a  thing  could  be  obtained  for  the  amount 
of  rent-money  allowed  them,  it  appears  to  be  our  first  duty 
to  follow  them  to  the  city  and  to  see  how  they  fared. 

They  were  fortunate  enough  to  find  the  place  for  the  price, 
and  through  the  last  person  on  earth !  Archie's  father.  And 


Aristocrats  43 

just  the  place !  An  attic  in  Gramercy  Park  whose  eaves 
swallows  had  not  forgotten;  nay,  nor  whose  chimney-pots,  of 
which  there  were  half  a  dozen  braces.  The  house  had  been 
erected  in  those  "spacious"  days  when  no  room  was  complete 
without  a  fireplace. 

It  had  been  a  great  establishment  in  its  time,  that  house ; 
and  a  great  family  had  nested  there,  too,  during  one  stage 
of  its  flight  up-town — Archie's  mother's  family — the  Van 
Vhroons.  They  had  left  a  broken  winged  Van  Vhroon  behind 
there  when  they  soared  Plaza-ward,  a  collateral  Van  Vhroon 
with  chinchilla-like  side  whiskers  and  an  old-world  spring- 
collar  and  broad  black  satin  stock-tie.  To  him,  Benjamin 
Hartogensis  owed  his  membership  in  a  certain  superior  club : 
and  during  the  days  of  Mrs.  Benjamin's  decline  and  fall  this 
Van  Vhroon  had  been  a  useful  substitute  when  her  husband 
declined  to  accompany  her  on  her  search  after  health.  Hence, 
Benjamin  had  "accommodated"  him  several  times,  grumbling 
outwardly,  but  inwardly  congratulating  himself  with  the 
thought  that  the  prices  of  Manhattan  real  estate  were  on  the 
upgrade. 

So  sure  had  he  been  of  this  that  when  the  mortgage-interest 
went  unpaid  Benjamin  allowed  his  impecunious  relative  to 
remain  unforeclosured.  He  would  soon  die,  anyway,  and 
then  a  semi-advertised  sheriff's  sale  could  be  arranged  that 
would  give  the  mortgagee  the  whole  property.  And  now, 
thanks  to  his  father's  foresight,  Archie  could  occupy  "cham- 
bers" there,  and  would  have  a  socially-impeccable  old  gentle- 
man to  take  him  into  exclusive  houses. 

A  moderate  rental  was  arranged — on  paper — to  be  de- 
ducted— on  paper — from  the  unpaid  interest  on  the  mort- 
gage. And  go  our  Two  came  into  possession  of  a  rambling 
set  of  low-roofed  and  oaken  raftered  rooms,  with  diamond- 
paned  dormers,  and  elm  trees  hiding  them  from  the  sight  of 
passers-by  and  permitting  their  occupants  to  see  over  the 
roofs  of  the  city  to  where  that  radiant  Madison  Square  Clock- 
Tower  told  the  time  to  the  darkest  hour  of  the  night,  and 


44  God's  Man 

the  Metropolitan  search-light  sought  out  other  sections  and 
lighted  them  up  intermittently. 

And  for  company,  they  had  always  the  chirping  sparrows 
and,  most  times,  the  gurgling  swallows,  too.  And  set  into 
niches  by  their  three  fireplaces  were  stores  of  books,  old  books, 
mostly,  and  rare:  "Gulliver"  in  little  fat  duo-decimos  and 
Dickens  and  G.  P.  E.  James  and  Lytton  in  squatty  three- 
volume  sets,  and  Byron  and  Shakespeare  and  Shelley  in  long 
thin  double-paged  quartos  .  .  .  and  so-on — down  to 
Golden  Gems  of  Thought  by  "A  Lady"  and  The  Language, 
of  Love,  or  the  Flowers'  Secrets  Revealed  by  "A  Gentle- 
woman" (in  reduced  circumstances  who  revealed  said  secrets 
only  to  send  her  little  sons  to  school — so  the  publisher  said, 
anyhow). 

Such  as  these  latter  Arnold  weeded  out  of  his  shelves  and 
put  on  Archie's,  for  Archie  never  read  anything  anyhow  and  he 
liked  these  better,  for  the  bindings  were  the  newest  and  fresh- 
est-looking. Arnold  brought  up  many  books  of  his  own  and 
added  shelves  over  their  "study"  fireplace,  and,  ransacking 
the  unused  lower  rooms,  by  permission,  found  many  more 
volumes  worthy  of  a  place  on  them,  so  that  soon  the  books 
overflowed  into  his  own  room  and  shelves  must  be  added 
there  too.  He  was  absolutely  happy  among  these  treasures 
of  his  (treasures  unknown  to-day),  Chateaubriand's  Indians 
and  those  serious  romances  of  Hans  Andersen's  that  have 
been  forgotten  and  Harrison  Ainsworth,  complete,  in  one 
hundred  and  twenty  little  volumes  with  the  original  drawings 
— odd,  creepy  things — by  Cruikshank  and  others — and  a  host 
more  that  have  left  the  early  Victorian  era  so  rich  in  our 
regrets  and  remembrances. 

And  original  black-letter  volumes:  The  Little  Geste  of 
Robin  Hood,  for  instance.  And  an  old  Dutch  edition  of 
Lessing,  with  the  English  translation  on  opposite  pages.  And 
even  (Ehlenschlager  and  Holberg  and  other  learned  and  in- 
structive fireside-reading  of  dead  days.  .  .  .  Everything, 
in  fact,  to  delight  the  bookman  and  bibliomaniac  down  to 


Aristocrats  45 

The  Golden  Ass  of  Apuleius  in  half  a  dozen  adaptations. 
In  fact  all  the  book-accumulations  of  the  Van  Vhroons  since 
settling  in  their  first  home  on  the  Bouwerie — that  flowery 
fragrant-smelling  Bower  that  is  now  otherwise  odoriferous 
— our  ill-smelling  Bowery. 

All  this  accumulation  had  been  left  behind.  It  was  lug- 
gage too  heavy  for  the  last  stage  of  the  Van  Vhroon  flight. 
The  possession  of  all  that  learning  would  have  held  them 
back  from  further  flights.  In  the  days  when  Arnold  came  to 
New  York  town,  books  were  the  last  things  in  the  world  to 
help  one  to  attain  its  heights. 

Arnold  would  have  willingly  forgotten  all  about  that  noisy 
dollar-getting  world  outside,  that  half-civilized  wholly  un- 
educated mob  that  jostled  and  swore  and  exuded  unpleasant 
odors  in  Subway  and  on  Elevated — among  whom  the  slogan, 
"I'm  as  Good  as  You  Are,"  had  been  translated  into  overt 
acts  of  exceeding  and  obtrusive  offensiveness. 

Thus  Arnold  thought,  anyhow.  He  had  yet  to  learn  that 
one  can  not  afford  to  be  the  perfect  esthete  at  the  start;  one 
misses  too  much.  Just  as  Archie  would  have  done  well  to 
avoid  being  the  "compleat  snob,"  assisted  by  his  father's 
blood  and  by  Miss  Carol  Caton,  whose  acquaintance  we  are 
gradually  approaching. 

But  for  one  troubling  conscience,  Arnold  would  have  spent 
his  days  sunken  deep  in  soft  padded  leather — and  how  soft 
century-old  padded  leather  can  be! — feet  upon  a  hearth- 
hassock,  eyes  on  the  sea-coal  fire  that  lit  up  the  German 
forest  and  wood-cutter's  hut  at  the  back  of  the  iron  grate. 
Or  turned  toward  the  windows  where  through  the  elm  trees 
one  saw  the  chimney-pots  of  the  old  quarter  and  fancied 
oneself  in  Dickens'  London.  Aa  one  did  also  when  looking 
downward  at  the  quaint  iron  railings  and  gates  and  grass- 
plots  and  the  gnarled  trees  of  old  Gramercy  Park,  and  the 
old-fashioned  Kensington-like  houses  over  Irving  Place  way. 
Or  staring  up  at  the  rafters,  smoky  with  many  fires,  or  at  the 
well-ordered  shelves  of  books  and  the  firelight  on  the  brass 


46  God's  Man 

candle-sticks  and  the  brass  bowls  over  the  window-seats,  the 
sunlight  on  the  green  and  crimson  of  their  geraniums. 

It  was  all  so  old-world-like. 

All  would  have  been  well  but  for  that  same  unruly  con- 
science that  bade  him  seek  work  and  cease  to  be  a  drain  on 
the  none-too-well-filled  family  purse.  So,  daily,  he  Park- 
Row-ed  himself,  and  forced  visiting  cards  on  bored  office- 
boys.  He  found  that  City  Editors  were  far  more  important 
than  Emperors.  On  his  way  home  he  dropped  off  at  Union 
Square  or  thereabouts,  and  found  that  Magazine  Moguls  were 
less  important  but  equally  unaware  of  the  importance  of  a 
L'Hommedieu.  Finally  arriving  home  in  time  for  tea,  and 
just  about  to  be  transported  back  to  Book-Land,  when  in 
would  come  Archie,  free  from  his  uncle's  office  and  noisily 
transform  himself  into  a  "young  society  man"  by  means  of  a 
frock-coat,  a  silk  topper  and  immaculate  gloves.  And  would 
as  noisily  demand  a  similar  transformation  of  Arnold. 

Sometimes  Arnold  would  sigh  and  comply.  And  sometimes 
he  would  sigh  and  not  comply.  But  always,  he  would  comply 
and  not  sigh,  when  Archie  suggested  calling  on  Carol  Caton. 
That  is,  at  first.  Afterward,  he  was  neither  to  sigh  nor  to 
comply,  only  to  pretend  to  snore. 

The  reason  therefor,  you  are  about  to  hear. 

III.  THE  COSTLY  Miss  CATON 

She  lived  behind  the  ivy-covered  walls  of  a  certain  Murray 
Hill  corner,  "barely  existed/'  rather,  during  a  season  that 
barely  recognized  her  existence.  The  corner  opposite  her 
sheltered  the  second-best  private  art  collection  in  the  world. 
Its  famous  owner  had  made  it  so  iince  the  time  he  decided 
hs  would  rather  be  known  as  a  patron  of  the  arti  than  a 
money  king  in  a  day  when  every  Lucky  Little  Rabbit  was  a 
"financier." 

Our  Rabbit— "Good  Old  Rabbit"  was  Carol's  pet  name  for 
her  father — was  not  christened  "Henry  Brooks-Caton"  any 


Aristocrats  47 

more  than  his  wife  was  "Winchelsea."  His  name,  out  of  the 
corn  country,  appears  signed  to  various  cheques  (hence  we 
believe  in  it)  as  "Henry  Z.  Kay  ton."  .  .  .  And  over  that 
"Z"  let  us  "draw  a  veil."  Let  us  make  a  deep  impenetrable 
mystery  of  it,  and  pass  on  to  the  former  Minnie  Brooks. 

Minnie !  "Winnie ! !  Winchelsea ! ! !  "Old-English-family, 
yon-know"  I  "Younger-Son" ! !  "Poor-Papa" ! ! !  That  is  her 
history,  and  it  is  all-the  space  she  deserves.  .  .  .  She  had 
married  Henry  Z.  when  he  was  an  honest,  hard-working  in- 
vestor in  the  Middle  West.  And  of  this  plaster-of-Paris  she 
had  created  a  dishonest,  whisker-tearing,  harder-working 
Stock-Gambler  who  lived  entirely  on  his  Luck. 

His  old  Luck. 

He  knew  that  some  day  he  was  going  to  "draw  it  too  fine," 
hence  knew  that  the  day  was  not  far  distant  when  his  wonder- 
ful wife  would  never  forgive  him  his  bankruptcy.  So,  for 
fear  she  would  suspect,  he  never  dared  hint  that  she  ceasp 
unnecessary  extravagances. 

Unnecessary?  She  would  have  thought  you  just  a  plain 
fool  if  you  said  so.  Had  she  not  managed,  by  not  being 
"cheap"  (so  she  fondly  believed)  in  affiliating  herself  with  a 
"Movement"  that  carried  her  into  the  "smartest"  circles.  She 
had  tried  all  the  "Movements"  when  she  heard  that  smart 
women  belonged  to  them:  Christian  Science,  the  Esoterics, 
the  Socialists — many  more. 

It  was  not  until  militant  Suffrage  came  along  that  she  man- 
aged to  get  recognizing  nods  from  Mrs.  "Van"  and  her  sister, 
Mrs."0.,"  to  have  the  newspapers  refer  to  her  as  "one  of  the 
smartest  young  matrons,"  although  she  was  not  really  a 
"young"  matron  at  all — Carol  was  eighteen.  Her  mother  had 
spent  most  of  the  years  of  Carol's  life  knocking  assiduously 
at  golden  doors ;  at  forty  just  managing  to  get  a  boot-toe  in- 
side them. 

Unnecessary?  Extravagance?  "Was  there  any  price  too 
high  for  entering  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  ? 

During  those  busy  days  she  had  not  had  time  to  train  Carol 


48  God's  Man 

into  the  perfect  snob ;  but,  her  social  position  assured,  so  long 
as  she  could  contribute  largely  to  the  Militants,  she  started 
to  finish  what  the  boarding-schools  had  only  begun;  started 
about  the  time  our  Musketeers  came  up  to  town. 

After  Arnold  and  Archie  had  called  the  first  time,  re- 
splendent in  their  new  tail-coats  and  shining  top-hats,  Mrs. 
Brooks-Caton,  after  receiving  information  as  to  their  identity, 
gave  her  daughter  Lession  No.  807,  from  that  handy  guide  to 
Social  Distinction,  "Snobs :  and  How  to  Be  Them." 

"That's  all  very  well  for  the  country,  where  one  can  know 
anybody,"  she  said  severely,  "but  in  town  one  is  judged  by 
one's  associates,  Carol,  dear.  I  should  imagine  the  best 
thing  one  can  do  under  such  circumstances  is  for  one  to  be 
out  when  such  people  call."  She  had  lately  acquired  the 
word  "one"  as  a  pronoun,  and  had  fallen  desperately  in  love 
with  it. 

Carol  answered  in  that  tired,  superior  way  so  popular  at 
the  boarding-school  that  she  was  jolly  glad  to  be  so  judged 
in  the  present  case.  "Archie's  a  nephew  of  Mrs.  Jack  Van 
Vhroon.  Your  Mrs.  Van  and  Mrs.  0.  aren't  everything. 
They  never  get  to  Mrs.  Jack's  small  affairs,  only  the  crushes" 
— a  distinction  making  all  the  difference !  For  far  beyond 
the  little  inclosed  deer  park  of  superiority  where  these  two 
ladies  ruled  were  the  high  spiked  walls  of  a  Forbidden  City, 
the  captain  of  the  guard  thereof  being  Mrs.  Jacob  Van 
Vhroon,  who  had  been  known  to  refuse  an  introduction  to  a 
Duchess — originally  from  the  Middle  West. 

So  Archie  became  a  petted  guest  at  the  Murray  Hill  house, 
and,  although  Mrs.  Jacob  Van  Vhroon,  herself,  would  have 
felt  more  honored  by  a  visit  from  the  eldest  son  of  the  house 
of  L'Hommedieu  than  by  the  intimate  acquaintance  of  Mrs. 
"Van"  and  Mrs.  "0.,"  the  L'Hommedieus  had  never  married 
among  Manhattan  patroons  and  had  no  collateral  branches 
with  names  familiar  to  Mrs.  Brooks-Caton.  So  Carol  found 
things  decidedly  uncomfortable  when  Arnold  called  alone. 
Seldom  was  it  that  Mrs.  Brooks-Caton  did  not  intrude,  in- 


Aristocrats  49 

sisting  on  carrying  off  Carol  to  fulfil  some  pressing  engage- 
ment of  which  the  girl  had,  hitherto,  no  sort  of  knowledge, 
or  else  she  would  remain  and  ask  Arnold  disconcerting  ques- 
tions about  the  doings  of  fashionable  folk  whom  he  did  not 
know. 

Not  disconcerting  to  him— *to  Carol.  She  would  flush  and 
make  other  and  awkward  conversation,  although  Arnold  re- 
mained quite  composed  and  smiling,  replying  either  that  "he 
had  never  heard  of  'him' — or  'her"' — or  that  "he  could 
hardly  avoid  seeing  in  the  newspapers  that  some  such  per- 
son—whom he  could  never  quite  understand  why  they  fussed 
BO  much  about — had  sailed  for  the  Mediterranean/' 

One  could  hardly  yield  Mrs.  Brooks-Caton  separate  vic- 
tories at  these  rencontres;  but  one  who  has  been  armor-proof 
against  the  smiles  and  snubs  of  women  whom  the  society  re- 
porters delight  to  chronicle,  is  serene  and  calm  under  the 
satire  of  a  "nobody";  so  when  Arnold  pressed  her  for  infor- 
mation— "who  in  the  world  was  that  Charlie  Dewitt  anyway  ? 
Had  he  discovered  some  famous  anesthetic  to  relieve  pain,  or 
written  a  great  book,  or  painted  a  wonderful  picture,  or 
financed  his  country's  panics,  or  what?" 

Mrs.  Brooks-Caton's  superior  smile  would  imply  he  had 
done  nothing  so  vulgar.  Evidently  Mr.  I/Hommedieu 
didn't  know  the  DeWitts  of  Westchester. 

IV.  How  SHE  LOST  ONE  MUSKETEER 

All  of  which,  plus  some  equally  offensive  mendacity  over 
the  telephone,  and  more  of  the  same  whenever  he  called,  had 
the  effect  of  cooling  Arnold's  affection  for  Carol.  She  must 
have  concealed  about  her  somewhere  some  of  the  traits  that 
were  so  large  a  part  of  her  mother.  And  once  married  and 
able  to  lay  aside  the  mask,  these  would  cause  her  husband  to 
repent,  daily,  a  sorry  bargain. 

So  Mrs.  Brooks-Caton  drove  him  away.  As  he  grew  to 
know  her  better  his  imagination  began  to  play  tricks  on  him, 


50  God's  Man 

and  he  could  not  look  on  Carol's  pretty  flufferies  and  flower- 
ILke  prettiness  without  seeing  behind  them  the  mother's 
shadow;  while  Carol's  little  affectations  of  superiority  and 
that  tired  manner — fondly  believed  to  be  aristocratic 
at  the  boarding-school — exasperated  him  beyond  belief. 

One  day  he  told  her  so.  During  their  quarrel  he  did  some 
more  plain  speaking  and,  as  he  enumerated  to  her  the  man- 
nerisms and  characteristics  he  disliked,  he  discovered,  sud- 
denly, and  equally  to  his  surprise,  that  his  love  for  her,  by 
the  light  of  which  he  had  gone  to  bed  each  night  and  risen 
each  morning,  needed  a  post-mortem.  Leaving  the  Murray 
Hill  house  that  afternoon,  he  decided  never  to  enter  it  again, 
no  matter  how  often  she  might  write  or  telephone.  Both 
things  he  was  quite  sure  she  would  do,  if  he,  himself,  did 
neither. 

"Let  Archie  have  her,"  he  said  angrily.  It  was  the  first 
unkind  thought  he  had  ever  had  of  his  friend.  Later  he 
proved  to  have  repented  it;  for,  one  night  of  the  same  week, 
he  brought  up  the  subject  artfully,  and,  no  longer  in  love, 
spoke  of  Carol  with  clear  vision. 

"We  saw  the  best  of  her  down  there  all  right.  She  didn't 
have  the  time  to  be  a  snob  then,  too  busy  swimming,  canoeing, 
playing  tennis  and  golf.  'No  mother  to  guide  her* — to  bother 
her  about  social  position  and  her  own  importance.  She'd  be 
a  nice  girl,  Carol  would,  if  she  were  with  nice  people,  in  nice 
places ;  but  breathing  that  poisoned  air  of  her  mother's  lizard 
friends—" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  lighted  his  pipe  over  their 
shaded  study  lamp.  "Lizards — what  d'you  mean,  lizards?" 
demanded  the  offended  Archie. 

"Don't  you  remember  when  we  used  to  climb  up  our  wire 
ladder  at  the  cave,  drying  out  on  the  ledge  after  a  swim. 
Well,  when  there  weren't  any  boats  passing  or  porpoises  swim- 
ming or  birds  flying  I  used  to  watch  those  funny  little  lizards 
that  looked  like  moving  emeralds  with  black  pearls  set  in 


Aristocrats  51 

them — jewels  they  were — jewels  with  their  bright  green  backs 
and  living  black  eyes  and  legs  carved  by  Lalique  in  Paris 
after  Chippendale  designs — " 

"Well,"  interrupted  Archie  impatiently,  "what've  they  got 
to  do  with—" 

"They  used  to  try  to  climb  up  that  slippery  rock  wall," 
went  on  Arnold  reminiscently,  "that  wall  as  green  as  them- 
selves, all  oozy  with  wet.  And  they'd  get  up  a  little  way 
and — smack !— down  they'd  flop.  But  did  that  phase  them  ? 
They  wouldn't  even  wait  to  get  their  breath  before  they  took 
another  spring  and  fastened  their  four  little  Chippendale 
legs  in  that  ooze,  and,  this  time,  they'd  go  slower,  and  get 
higher.  But  soon  they'd  flop  again  and  harder,  too.  Maybe 
they'd  hurt  themselves  a  little  this  time,  and  wait  a  minute, 
basking  in  the  sun ;  but  pretty  soon  they'd  be  off  a  third  time 
— and  a  fourth — and  a  fifth.  Sometimes  they  wouldn't  go 
four  feet  in  a  whole  afternoon,  but  they  kept  trying.  I  used 
to  wonder  what  there  was  up  at  the  top  of  that  wall  that  made 
them  so  eager  to  get  there;  so,  one  day,  you  remember,  we 
went  reconnoitering — I  didn't  tell  you  why — said  there  was 
an  eagle's  nest  up  there  or  something  to  get  you  excited." 

"Well,  of  all  the  fool  things  in  the  world,"  ejaculated 
Archie;  "of  all  the  fool  things  that's  the  worst — getting  all 
bruised  up  for  nothing." 

"It  wasn't  for  nothing,"  returned  Arnold,  "knowledge  of 
anything  important  enough  to  make  a  whole  tribe  of  lizards 
spend  their  lives  trying  to  get  it — that's  worth  knowing.  You 
remember  what  was  at  the  top  there  ?" 

"Why — some  kind  of  purple  flower,  wasn't  there?  Didn't 
Hugo  start  to  pick  some  and  you  stopped  him — said  they  were 
poison  ?" 

"Purple  poison,"  returned  Arnold,  nodding.  "Beautiful 
but  poisonous — just  to  remind  people  that  beauty  isn't  every- 
thing and  isn't  always  to  be  trusted.  No  fragrance — -noth- 
ing— yet  I  saw  one  little  lizard  make  the  top  of  the  cliff  while 


52  God's  Man 

we  were  there — come  dragging  his  tired  little  body  over  to 
those  flowers — couldn't  wait — had  to  get  into  that  purple 
poison  and  die." 

He  stopped  smoking,  laying  aside  his  pipe  as  though  it 
were  suddenly  distasteful  to  him. 

"What  fools  I  thought  those  lizards  were.  How  glad  I 
was  we  were  above  such  foolishness  as  spending  our  whole 
lives  in  flopping  and  bumping  and  hurting  ourselves  just  to 
wallow  in  purple  poison.  .  .  .  But  I'm  not  so  sure 
we're  so  darned  superior  nowadays.  There's  Carol.  She 
doesn't  think  of  anything  except  who  was  at  the  Opera,  and 
is  it  worth  while  getting  Horse  Show  Clothes  when  the  people 
spend  so  much  time  looking  at  the  horses?  (By  the  way, 
wouldn't  you  like  to  find  a  newspaper  head-writer  strong- 
minded  enough  to  resist  saying,  'The  Horse  Is  King5  that 
week  ?)  Or  whether  papa's  allowance  for  mother's  reception 
will  permit  having  a  couple  of  minor  opera  singers  or  pian- 
ists or  fiddlers  'oblige/  Or  how  shall  she  treat  that  girl  who 
went  to  school  with  her  and  who  still  insists  on  calling,  even 
since  her  father's  had  the  bad  taste  to  lose  everything  and  she 
wears  last  year's  clothes  and,  really,  can  a  swell  like  Carol 
afford  to  be  seen  taking  tea  with  her  at  a  place  like  the  Ro- 
tunda ?  She's  likely  to  find  any  number  of  eligible  men  there, 
you  know!" 

Archie,  who  had  growled  several  times,  now  had  the  cour- 
age to  interrupt,  decisively: 

"Cut  it  out,  Arnold,"  he  said;  "call  her  mother  a  'lizard' 
and  her  friends  'lizards,'  but  let  her  alone.  .  .  ."  He 
paused,  breathing  hard.  "I — I  mean  it,  old  boy,"  he  finally 
summarized,  miserable  under  Arnold's  gaze.  "You  had  your 
chance,  the  same  as  I,  and  if — well — if — " 

He  had  meant  to  conclude  with  something  to  the  effect 
that  if  she  preferred  Archie  to  Arnold,  it  fooled  nobody  for 
the  fox  to  say  the  grapes  were  sour,  with  the  addenda  that, 
among  well-bred  foxes,  it  was  fairly  average  bad  taste  to 
criticize  such  grapes.  But  Arnold's  gray  eyes  and  steady 


Aristocrats  53 

level  gaze  were  especially  disconcerting  to  any  one  about  to 
impute  dishonorable  motives  to  him,  so  Archie  did  not  finish. 
Arnold  deflected  the  conversation  to  other  fields.      It  wai 
worse  than  useless  to  continue  it  then. 

V.  How  SHE  WON  ANOTHER 

It  proved  useless  also  on  all  future  occasions,  particularly 
as  Carol,  soon  after  she  realized  that  Arnold  did  not  intend  to 
answer  her  letters,  or  to  be  at  home,  officially,  when  she  tele- 
phoned, wrote  a  cold  little  note,  demanding  the  return  of 
anything  in  her  handwriting  that  might  be  in  his  possession, 
sending  with  this  letter  a  neat  package  containing  his  briefer 
screeds.  Others,  which  contained  some  fairly  good  verse 
written  in  her  honor,  she  retained,  claiming  to  have  burnt 
them. 

Later,  from  some  unguarded  hints  Archie  let  fall,  Carol 
suspected  Arnold  of  sharing  his  depreciation  of  her,  and  so 
showed  the  verse  to  young  Mr.  Hartogensis.  Proving  how 
deeply  infatuated  her  detractor  had  been  and  how  sorry  she 
had  been  they  could  not  remain  "just  friends/'  She  felt  se- 
cure, from  Arnold's  faithful  compliance  with  her  request  that 
he  had  no  proof  to  the  contrary.  But  she  did  not  know  the 
L'Hommedieu  notion  of  honor  if  she  imagined  Arnold  would 
have  betrayed  a  woman's  confidence  for  any  purpose  so  petty 
as  to  prove  something  against  her. 

So  Archie  put  down  Arnold's  occasional  anxious  attempts 
to  break  Carol's  hold  as  mere  examples  of  human  weakness. 
He  was  sorry  to  see  them  in  his  erstwhile  leader,  but  they 
were  natural,  considering  the  heart-hurt  that  went  with  the 
loss  of  so  great  a  treasure.  And  he  was  more  inclined  to 
pardon  it  since  it  had  been  because  of  him  that  the  treasure 
had  been  lost. 

Such  is  our  egotism,  we  men.  We  like  to  believe  that  the 
woman  who  has  chosen  us  has  refused,  or  might  have  refused, 
others  who  seem  far  more  brilliant,  far  more  important  and 


54  God's  Man 

worth  while.  "Seem,"  we  repeat.  It  takes  a  clever  woman 
like  Carol  to  discover  that  we,  ourselves,  though  scorning  to 
make  a  show  of  honest  worth,  are  really  the  better  men,  after 
all ;  and,  partly  for  that  cleverness,  we  love  her.  It  is  seldom 
we  can  love  any  woman  truly  who  does  not  make  us  love  our- 
selves more — if  that  is  possible. 

Archie  was  one  in  whom  it  was. 

For  instance,  Archie  had  never  believed  he  had  any  talent 
for  financiering  until  Carol  persuaded  him  that  he  had,  and 
thus  did  her  share  to  bring  about  that  calamity  which  was 
partly  due  to  the  coming  of  Arnold  to  Eupert  Passage. 
Carol's  chief  reason  for  believing  in  this  latent  ability  within 
Archie  was  the  very  low  opinion  she  had  of  "The  Good  Old 
Rabbit,"  as  she  called  her  worthy  father,  a  pale  little  person 
with  fragments  of  mustache  and  beard  that  looked  as  if  he 
went  to  a  toy  terrier  to  have  them  worried  instead  of  to  a 
barber  to  have  them  trimmed.  He  wore  drooping  eye- 
glasses, too,  and,  since  his  business  kept  him  too  occupied  to 
remove  his  hat  often,  was  bald  on  the  part  the  hat  covered. 
He  was,  in  fact,  one  of  the  type  that  cartoonists  use  as  models 
for  "The  Common  People." 

Yet  this  competent  Rabbit,  when  ordered  by  its  master, 
Mrs.  Brooks-Caton,  had  the  ability  to  retrieve  out  of  that 
muddy  stream  called  Wall  Street  costly  articles  and  sums  of 
great  value.  And  this  was  financiering. 

What  The  Eabbit  could  do,  then,  anybody  could — certainly 
the  man  of  her  choice — man  ?  Archie  was  just  twenty-one — 
whom,  some  day,  if  an  unofficial  engagement  was  any  sign, 
she  expected  to  marry.  But,  before  that  could  come  to  pass, 
he  must  be  able  to  "support  her  in  the  style  to  which  she  was 
accustomed."  Wicked,  wicked  phrase!  Why,  pray,  should 
a  youngster,  just  beginning,  be  able  to  do  what  an  oldster, 
nearly  ending,  had  only  recently  succeeded  in  doing?  And 
yet  it  was  "un-American,"  "unmanly"  for  such  a  youngster  to 
accept  any  assistance  from  his  wife's  father,  or,  if  she  had 
money  herself,  worse  to  use  hers.  She  might  graciously  re- 


Aristocrats  55 

lieve  him  of  her  Bats  and  clothes,  but  the  expensive  apart- 
ment, the  servants,  the  motor  and  all  the  rest — it  was  "manly" 
for  him  to  provide. 

These  are  lessons  the  modern  middle-class  American 
woman  has  been  implanting  in  men's  minds  until  the  men, 
as  is  their  custom,  believe  them  original  masculine  opinions, 
and  are  ashamed  to  be  caught  without  them.  And,  by  infer- 
ence, Carol  was  asking  Archie  if  he  held  them  when  she  in- 
sisted on  his  talent  for  financiering.  He  must  do  something 
better  than  sit  on  a  high  stool  on  his  Uncle  Van  Vhroon's 
dock,  superintending  cargo-loading  and  unloading,  mustn't 
he?  That  is,  unless  his  father  .  .  . 

Archie  laughed. 

"Every  bit  of  income  goes  into  Exmoor,  girlie,"  he  said. 
"And  that'll  be  all  the  better  for  us,  some  day.  But  he  doesn't 
think  a  man  ought  to  be  married  until  he's  past  thirty  just 
because  he  didn't  himself.  And  even  if  he  didn't  get  angry, 
he'd  think  what  Uncle  Archie  pays  me  and  the  income  from 
my  mother's  money  ought  to  be  enough.  Course  he  don't 
know.  New  York  was  different  in  his  time — a  regular  vil- 
lage." 

"That's  what  I  meant  you  could  use  as  capital — your 
mother's  money,"  said  Carol  hurriedly. 

She  did  not  even  admit  the  possibility  of  an  income  from 
a  mere  ten  thousand  being  of  the  slightest  assistance  to  them, 
when  a  decent  rag  cost  more  than  a  fourth  of  said  income, 
even  at  six  per  cent. 

"I  know  The  Good  Old  Rabbit  started  with  a  jolly  sight 
less.  As  capital,"  she  insisted  again,  "as  capital  it's  quite 
all  right — quite  a  Godsend.  The  Street  will  do  the  rest. 
Just  watch  it.  Not  the  ordinary  things,  but  those  new  ones 
just  starting  that  will  pay  for  capital — that's  how  The  Rabbit 
got  ahead.  Four  hundred  and  fifty  per  cent,  one  of  his  in- 
vestments paid." 

And,  indeed,  such  had  been  the  case.  The  Rabbit  had  been 
a  clerk  in  a  western  shoe  store,  when  an  honest  prospector  (the 


56  God's  Man 

last  of  an  extinct  race)  had  stumped  into  town  from  the 
mountains,  put  an  advertisement  in  the  newspaper  and 
awaited  the  assistance  of  Capital  in  purchasing  machinery  to 
unearth  the  vast  quantities  of  copper  he  had  discovered.  And 
Capital  had  come  in  such  driblets  as  the  late  Zachariah  Kay- 
ton's  insurance  money.  Later,  for  his  few  thousands,  The 
Rabbit  had  many  hundred  to  show.  Such  luck  had  never 
been  repeated,  but  having  larger  capital,  he  did  not  need  such 
large  percentages.  However,  always,  he  had  profited  hugely 
by  assisting  in  the  births  of  new  ventures — mines,  inventions, 
provincial  trolley  lines,  "jerkwater"  railroads. 

But  autre  temps,  autre  mceurs.  "Big  Business"  looked 
after  such  things  nowadays,  hence  his  declension  as  a  finan- 
cier and  the  bulk  of  his  former  fortune  was  drifting  through 
the  fog-bank  of  distress  and  toward  the  rocks  of  bankruptcy. 

Except  in  those  rare  cases  where  exploiters  of  new  but 
worthy  ventures  were  inexperienced,  large  returns  for  small 
capital  were  swindles;  and  Big  Business  was  glad  of  it.  It 
taught  the  middle  class  to  thank  Heaven  for  kindly  places 
called  banks  which  would  care  tenderly  for  inexperienced 
money,  and  even  philanthropically  pay  a  few  per  cent,  of 
what  that  money  made  when  properly  and  sanely  invested. 

Of  course,  Carol  could  not  know  of  these  dangerous  reefs 
in  the  business  world.  During  the  times  her  mother  was  in 
Europe  and  The  Eabbit  dared  open  his  timid  mouth  without 
fear  of  correction  before  servants,  he  partook  immoderately 
of  wine  at  dinner,  boldly  ordered  his  butler  to  cut  courses 
and  fetch  him  a  rare  sirloin  or  something  of  the  sort  that 
could  be  grilled,  "and  plenty  of  it;"  and  then  sat  in  his  chair 
(head  of  the  family,  as  should  be),  admired  by  Carol,  the 
butler  and  the  maid  who  served  at  table,  all  of  whom  listened 
entranced  to  the  modern  fairy-tale  of  Cinderellus,  the  shoe 
clerk,  the  African — or  rather  the  Rocky  Mountain — magi- 
cian, the  haughty  shoe  store  proprietor,  and  what  Cinderellus 
"said  to  him,  he  says."  Of  other  Aladdin-like  increases  in 
fortune :  the  aeroplane  that  started  in  an  Ohio  woodshed,  end- 


Aristocrats  57 

ing  in  the  palace  of  a  King ;  the  headache  cure  in  the  little 
brown  bottle  that  made  a  drug  clerk  a  millionaire  in  a  twelve- 
month; and  other  wonders  of  the  Eight  Investment  at  the 
Eight  Time. 

It  was  such  a  night  when  she  had  Archie  to  dine  that  he 
might  hear  these  modern  fairy-tales.  He  listened,  his  eyes 
alight,  and  saw,  not  the  tapestried  walls  of  the  Brooks-Caton 
home,  but  a  smaller  edition,  his  own,  and  Carol  sitting  across 
from  him,  and  The  Good  Old  Eabbit,  with  another  and 
equally  thrilling  yarn  added  to  his  repertoire — the  rapid  rise 
of  Archibald  Hartogensis,  Esquire  (once  only  an  assistant  in 
a  shipping  office),  to  Place,  Power  and  an  Apartment  Off  the 
Park. 

"Why,  I've  been  wasting  my  life,"  he  said  to  Carol,  when 
they  lounged,  alone,  in  the  Japanese  room,  with  coffee  and 
cigarettes. 

Carol  nodded.  "That's  what  I  wanted  you  to  see,"  she 
said.  "I  thought — when  you  heard  The  Eabbit — " 

Soon  they  were  in  the  midst  of  discussions  as  to  the  rela- 
tive merit  of  fumed  oak  and  Circassian  walnut,  white  "cot- 
tage" boudoir  furniture  (Archie  was  not  so  indelicate  as  to 
say  "bedroom")  and  mahogany.  Of  course,  in  mahogany, 
you  got  four-posters,  and  those  quaint  glass  knobs  and  tall- 
boys, and  many  another  interesting  individual  piece;  but 
with  the  "Trianon"  you  could  string  along  the  wall,  by 
lengthy  rose-colored  cords,  the  "most  divine"  Watteau 
prints.  .  .  . 

And,  that  these  purposes  might  be  fulfilled,  and  the  smaller 
edition  of  the  Murray  Hill  house  made  a  reality,  Archie  be- 
gan to  take  financial  papers  and  to  consult  with  The  Good 
Old  Eabbit  concerning  Large  Eeturns  for  Small  Investments. 

Beading  the  morning  paper  regarding  the  exposure  of  some 
get-rich-quick  swindle,  one  wonders  what  hypnotic  power  was 
used  to  get  victims  to  invest.  It  was  seZ/-hypnosis  such  aa 
Archie's;  the  belief  that,  somewhere,  are  philanthropists  wait- 
ing eagerly  to  make  large  fortunes  for  small  strangers.  These 


58  God's  Man 

philanthropists  do  not  need  to  seek  the  strangers.  They  have 
only  to  advertise  and  they  come,  already  persuadsd. 

It  was  inevitable  that  Archie,  in  his  present  frame  of  mind, 
should  fall  a  victim  to  the  advertisement  that  finally  "wrought 
his  ruin,"  or  that  blinded  him  that  he  might,  eventually,  see. 

Its  immediate  result  was  to  separate  him  from  Arnold.  To 
save  interminable  taxicabs,  he  said,  he  must  be  nearer 
Canary's  and  "the  club,"  nearer  than  Gramercy  Park,  any- 
how. Arnold  preferred  to  remain.  Gramercy  had  the  old- 
world  atmosphere  he  loved;  Ms  club  was  there.  Besides,  his 
income  would  not  run  to  Canary's  bachelor  apartments,  or 
others  of  the  same  sort  along  the  Avenue.  Xeither  would 
Archie's — income.  .  .  .  But,  in  view  of  the  Eight  In- 
vestment soon  to  appear  at  the  Right  Time,  the  "dower- 
right"  of  the  late  Gretchen  V.-V.  Hartogensis  was  a  Fortu- 
natus  purse,  into  which  one  might  dip  and  dip  without  caus- 
ing any  perceptible  shrinkage. 

Arnold  prided  himself  on  not  mentioning  money  when  writ- 
ing home.  He  had  lived  at  his  father's  expense  for  several 
months  while  awaiting  a  vacancy,  and  now,  although  actually 
on  The  Argus,  the  city  editor  was  paying  him  a  beginner's 
wage — too  little  to  afford  the  society  of  Archie's  friends — or 
of  Hugo's  either.  .  .  . 

Which  reminds  us  that  a  certain  catastrophe  is  close  at 
hand — for  us.  Several  years  must  elapse  before  Arnold  is 
to  be  involved;  but  they  were  years  that  brought  no  radical 
change  in  his  condition.  That  he  should  soon  acquire  some 
reputation  as  a  reporter  was  as  eventual  as  that  Archie  should 
answer  that  certain  advertisement  and  that  Miss  Bobbie  Beu- 
lah  should  give  a  certain  little  supper  party. 


CHAPTER   FIVE 

CATASTROPHE 

I.  How  THE  HONORABLE  JOHN  WALDEMAE  TAUGHT  His  SON 

TO  BE  HONORABLE,  TOO INTRODUCING  MlSS 

BOBBIE  BEULAH 

HE  was  working  you — how  many 
times  must  I  tell  you  ?" 

Thus  Arnold  once,  as  you 
have  heard — thus  Arnold  inter- 
minably, before  and  after. 

The  back  of  Hugo's  watch 
held  a  snapshot  of  a  laughing 
dimpled  girl  with  short  soubret- 
tish  hair,  Miss  Bobbie  Beulah; 
at  their  meeting  one  of  the 
"ponies"  in  "The  Merry  World" 
company,  playing  the  "one- 
nighters,"  Cyprus  among  them 
— county  seat  and  seat  of  Old 
King's  College  besides.  It  was  a  bad  show  under  shoestring 
management,  to  the  members  of  which  salaries  were  uncertain 
and  so  was  booking. 

Hugo  had  been  the  good  angel  for  whom  girls  in  such  com- 
panies pray.  Miss  Bobbie  had  ceased  to  be  a  "Merry  Worlder," 
the  Cyprian  engagement  once  concluded.  After  having  been 
Hugo'g  guest  at  the  Sussex  Arms  for  the  better  part  of  the 
following  week,  he  had  arranged  for  her  to  return  to  the  City 
of  Engagements  solvent;  had  restored  to  her  that  solvency 


60  God's  Man 

several  times  since ;  had  taken  cognizance  of  her  necessity  for 
outfitting,  and  for  singing  and  dancing  lessons,  only  demand- 
ing that  she  obey  his  command — not  renew  an  engagement 
with  a  wildcat  company. 

Miss  Bobbie  had  been  a  faithful  correspondent,  but,  mostly, 
her  literary  efforts  were  devoted  to  the  making  of  requests  for 
money.  Eventually  Hugo  would  have  discovered  this;  life 
at  Old  King's  and  his  leader's  proclivities  presenting  few 
opportunities  for  visiting  New  York.  But  the  expulsion  had 
come  at  a  time  when  Miss  Bobbie  had  been  gone  from  him 
only  a  month  or  more,  and  his  desire  was  heightened  by  mem- 
ory. Had  Arnold  known  of  the  correspondence  and  the 
loans  he  would  have  used  all  his  powers  to  persuade  Hugo  to 
remain  at  Havre  de  Grace. 

"She  was  working  you;  how  many  times  must  I  tell  you?" 
he  would  repeat  again  and  again.  "Not  that  I  blame  the 
poor  little  thing.  .  .  ." 

Arnold  had  been  of  the  party  once  when  Hugo  and  Archie 
took  Miss  Bobbie  and  others  to  dine  in  a  private  room  at  the 
Arms. 

"She's  had  a  hard  time,  I  guess.  I  didn't  mind  your  help- 
ing her;  help  her  all  you  like.  But  don't  fall  in  love  with 
her.  You're  just  a  pocketbook  to  her,  Hugo.  She  doesn't 
know  whether  you're  good-looking  or  not;  your  bank-book 
hides  your  face.  And  she  doesn't  know  you've  got  the  big- 
gest heart  in  the  world — as  Archie  would  say — she  just  thinks 
she's  clever  enough  to  get  money  out  of  you.  That's  one  of 
the  ways  the  poor  take  it  out  of  the  rich — breaking  their 
hearts  when  they  only  mean  to  break  their  pocketbooks." 

But  Miss  Bobbie  had  considerable  natural  ability  at  chica- 
nery; and  as  Hugo  had  not  spared  expense,  and  as  she  had 
procured  a  Garden  engagement,  and  as  a  girl  who  dresses 
with  those  young  ladies  who  drive  through  Central  Park  in 
limousines  "loaned"  by  their  dear  friends  has  nothing  to 
learn  about  ways  and  means  in  the  matter  of  artifice,  Miss 
Bobbie  with  a  tinted  veil  was  the  ideal  American  girl — as  per 


Catastrophe  61 

the  magazine  covers.  And  when  Hugo  saw  her  again  and  was 
assured  of  this  incomparable  creature's  eternal  affection,  he 
had  assured  her  that  his  was  equally  everlasting. 

And  had  come  back  home,  expelled,  to  add  insult  to  in- 
jury— in  his  father's  eyes. 

How  could  his  son  be  so  many  objectionable  and  otherwise 
unattractive  sorts  of  idiots?  No,  not  his  son.  HIS  son. 
His,  always  his.  He  then,  with  the  native  cunning  that  had 
made  the  son  of  a  serf  an  American  millionaire,  had  taken 
steps  to  insure  the  protection  of  his  property. 

He  had  the  acumen  not  to  forbid  Hugo  any  further  ac- 
quaintance with  the  lady,  for  that,  he  knew,  would  have  the 
same  effect  as  an  authorization.  No !  He  advised  his  son 
to  a  cynical  end,  an  end,  however,  which  the  average  respect- 
able father  would  have  approved  as  the  wisest  course;  al- 
though how  they  reconcile  such  view-points  with  their  avowals 
of  sturdy  Christianity,  it  is  difficult  to  understand. 

"What  a  precious  green  one  you  are,  to  be  sure,  Hugo,"  he 
said,  laughing,  and  clapping  his  son  on  the  back.  (It  was  the 
same  night  that  he  had  outlined  his  life's  history  to  the 
Squire.)  "But  I  was  that  way  myself  at  your  age.  There 
was  a  little  singer  at  the  Salammbo,  in  St.  Petersburg — what 
they  call  a  caffy  chantong — a  music-hall.  I  was  gone  on  this 
little  singer.  Nothing  would  do  but  we  must  be  married, 
right  bang,  slap  off.  And  my  Dad,  he  come  to  me  just  like 
I'm  doing  now;  he  laffed — laffed,  he  did;  yes,  Hugo,  that's 
what  he  did.  And  he  said:  'Look  here,  son,  before  you 
asked  this  here  little  lady  to  be  your  wife  did  you — well,  did 
you'—" 

Waldemar  winked  prodigiously,  slyly,  wickedly,  like  a 
smoking-room  satyr.  It  was  typical  of  his  kind  that  he  did 
not  have  the  courage  actually  to  put  his  sinister  innuendo 
into  words.  Was  he  not  of  the  sort  that  buys,  eagerly,  porno- 
graphic Parisian  papers,  scans  them  with  many  chuckles  and, 
between  France  and  America,  tosses  them  overboard?  And, 
if  interviewed  at  the  dock,  says  something  impressive  about 


62  God's  Man 

the  superior  morality  of  the  Anglo-Saxon?  With  which 
they  have  most  often  no  racial  connection. 

He  went  over  the  story  of  the  imaginary  little  Salammbo 
chanteuse  several  times  that  evening,  and  many  times  after, 
embroidering  it,  dwelling  upon  its  lesson — which  was  that  he 
soon  tired  of  her  after  taking  sage  parental  counsel  and  was 
indeed  glad  he  had  a  wise  father,  who  had  restrained  him, 
with  clearer  understanding,  from  tying  himself,  for  life,  to 
a  wretched  existence. 

"Boys  will  be  boys,"  he  said.  "I  was  huming.  I  expect 
you  to  be  huming.  I  expect  every  man  to  be  huming.  All 
I  ask  is  decency.  Respectability,  that's  the  keynote  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon  race;  that's  made  her  what  she  is.  And  she 
asks  that,  and  only  that,  from  every  Anglo-Saxon." 

He  had  a  bad  habit  of  intruding  bits  of  his  public  speeches 
into  his  private  conversation. 

"She  says:  'I  recognize  this  here  humanity  of  yours,  but 
I  say  a  man  must  learn  to  be  respectable  if  he  wants  to  be 
huming.  Look  at  these  here  French.  That's  what  a  man 
gets  for  bein'  huming  without  bein'  respectable.  See  ?' " 

Hugo  spent  a  wretched  month  or  so  after  returning  to 
Xew  York  to  grace  a  desk  in  the  office  of  the  Waldemar  Man- 
ufacturing Company.  Then,  one  night,  he  drank  too  heavily, 
and  Miss  Bobbie  had  to  do  some  hard  thinking.  Here  were 
the  Crossways  and  she  must  choose.  She  did  not  blame 
Hugo.  It  was  her  fight  with  his  father.  Hugo  was  only 
a  pawn,  pushed  forward  by  her,  back  by  him.  She  had  her 
chance,  that  night,  to  win  a  move.  Hugo  was  passionately 
desiring  her  to  get  into  his  waiting  taxi  and  drive  to  the  min- 
ister's. But,  to-morrow,  it  would  be  Waldemar's  move,  and 
her  pay  at  the  Garden  would  just  cover  the  rent  and  a  few 
minor  expenses.  She  had  a  friend  who  had  married  against 
the  will  of  a  rich  father-in-law,  and  with  her  young  husband, 
unused  to  the  idea  of  earning  money,  had  lived  in  a  furnished 
room  and  cooked  their  principal  meals  over  the  gas  and  in  a 
chafing-dish,  until  the  youngster  fell  in  with  "the  gang"  and 


Catastrophe  63 

was  now  "steering"  members  of  his  former  clubs  to  gambling- 
houses,  receiving  the  "stew  per  eent."  Bobbie  had  heard  of 
other  such  cases. 

One  often  wonders,  when  momentous  decisions  must  be 
made  instantly,  that  so  brief  a  time  is  sufficient  to  review 
details,  the  recital  of  which  would  consume  hours.  Bobbie 
saw  her  pretty  furniture  under  the  hammer — as  poor  Eosie's 
had  been;  saw  the  beggarly  price  people  were  willing  to  pay 
for  second-hand  electrics  "as  good  as  new,"  saw  the  possibility 
of  "road"  tours  again — saw  other  disagreeable  things,  many 
of  them.  Yet,  if  she  refused  marriage  she  must  be  his 
mistress ;  else,  sooner  or  later,  he  would  drift  away. 

She  was  wise  in  the  wisdom  of  necessity,  was  Bobbie.  And 
she  wrenched  victory  from  defeat.  Yield  she  must,  but, 
yielding,  lose  none  of  his  respect;  that  was  her  problem,  as 
she  hung,  apparently  limp  and  half-fainting  in  his  arms;  a 
problem  easily  enough  solved  in  the  case  of  one  so  simple- 
minded  as  Hugo. 

There  is  an  argument,  supposed  to  be  exceedingly  artful, 
which  every  youngster  imagines  he,  alone,  has  achieved.  Bob- 
bie had  often  jeered  at  it  when  impassioned  young  men  had 
attempted  persuasion  with  it.  It  had  not  persuaded  her  in 
the  least,  but  it  was  just  the  thing  to  impress  Hugo. 

"We  can't,  we  can't,"  she  wailed.  "It  would  be  wicked. 
He'd  never  forgive  you,  and  I'd  never  forgive  myself.  Sup- 
pose he  died  without  forgiving  you.  Then  you'd  hate  me. 
Oh,  don't  say  you  wouldn't — after  a  while  you'd  hate  me. 
We're  married  anyhow,  dearest  one.  He,  nor  anybody  else, 
can't  change  that;  we're  married  in  the  sight  of  Heaven." 
(Yes,  she  even  dared  that !)  "I'll  never  love  any  one  else,  and 
you  won't  either,  will  you,  dear?  And,  maybe,  some  day, 
when  he  sees  he  can't  make  you  love  anybody  else,  maybe 
then  he'll  see  that  there  are  marriages  that  don't  have  to  be 
made  in  churches.  'After  all,  could  a  priest  mumbling  a  few 
words  make  us  love  one  another  more' — " 

The  last  was  word  for  word  as  she  had  heard  it  from  at 


64  God's  Man 

least  two  youngsters  and  one  middle-aged  man,  who  had 
started  late  as  a  Don  Juan.  But  it  was  novel  to  Hugo,  to 
whom  the  deception  of  women  was  alien.  He  broke  down, 
kissed  her  hand,  and  said  she  shouldn't  sacrifice  herself; 
and — 

But  to  quote  his  respectable  and  highly  original  father, 
after  all,  Hugo  was  "miming." 

II.   BOBBIE'S  LITTLE  SUPPER  PARTY 

So  long  as  Miss  Beulah  Roberts  had  looked  forward  to 
being  Mrs.  Hugo  "Waldemar  some  day,  she  had  so  ordered 
her  existence  that,  when  she  should  be  fulfilling  matronly 
duties,  no  reminiscences  of  indiscretions  would  be  possible  to 
envious  women  and  other  carping  critics.  Such  favors  as 
she  had  received  at  Hugo's  hands  had  been  received,  inwardly, 
with  gratitude,  which  had  prevented  any  extravagant  re- 
quests. (The  electric  had  been  an  unexpected  Christma? 
gift,  Hugo's  own  idea,  kept  secret.) 

The  gratitude  also  prevented  her  from  saving  anything  at 
Hugo's  expense;  even  the  twenty-five  dollars  of  weekly  wage 
was  expended.  She  avoided  the  class  of  girls  who  flouted 
conventions,  and  who  let  it  be  known,  flagrantly,  that  their 
salaries  were  only  "taxi-cab  fares";  avoided  restaurants,  too, 
where  such  girls,  and  those  who  paid  their  expenses,  were  the 
chief  attractions. 

She  was  a  simple  child  of  nature — a  country  girl — who  be- 
lieved in  the  great  American  myth  of  social  equality.  A  girl 
had  only  to  keep  her  good  name  and  not  get  talked  about,  and 
she  was  "the  equal  of  any  one."  Bobbie  plumed  herself  on 
her  superiority  to  "those  society  dames"  who  smoked  cigar- 
ettes publicly,  and  who  had  started  a  scandalous  fashion  in 
divorces.  Eeally,  marriage  meant  nothing  to  them  at  all. 

Now,  marriage  was  the  one  thing  reverenced  by  Miss  Bob- 
bie. Her  people  had  been  Roman  Catholics  for  centuries, 
and,  once  it  was  plain  to  her  that  Hugo  desired  marriage,  she 


Catastrophe  65 

had  honestly  gone  to  work  to  fit  herself  for  that  sacred  state. 
Not  only  did  she  eschew  acquaintances  of  doubtful  repute, 
but  she  endeavored  to  purge  her  speech  of  slang  and  sole- 
cisms generally,  to  avoid  late  hours  and  to  cease  to  look  upon 
Hugo  merely  as  a  dispensation  of  Providence  for  getting  her 
bills  paid. 

A  wiser  man  than  John  Waldemar  or  one  who  loved  hu- 
manity better  than  empty  honors  would  have  perceived,  in  her 
efforts,  a  commendable  spirit  which  would  have  resulted  in  a 
wife  not  to  be  disdained. 

But  all  that  was  changed  now.  Hugo's  gifts  were  no 
longer  favors,  and  she  must  smother  the  reproaches  of  a  con- 
science that  hitherto  had  found  in  monthly  confession  to 
Father  Eyan,  and  in  fulfilling  his  small  penances,  all  neces- 
sary solace.  She  dared  not  go  to  the  worthy  Father  now, 
so  denied  an  anodyne,  she  sought  a  stimulant. 

Since  there  was  to  be  no  marriage  with  Hugo  or  anybody 
else,  she  had  still  the  idea  that  a  compromised  girl  was  doomed 
never  to  bear  "an  honest  man's  name" — no  acquaintances 
could  contaminate  her;  so  the  girls  she  had  once  avoided  she 
now  sought.  One  ever  seeks  for  bosom  friends,  those  with 
whom  one  can  be  perfectly  honest;  and  with  the  "home- 
cooking"  girls,  those  who  earned  a  living  by  chorus  work,  as 
they  would  have  by  sewing  or  selling  ribbons,  or  those  ambi- 
tious young  ladies  who  were  in  vocal  training,  or  went  to 
schools  of  expression  while  doing  chorus  work  for  experience, 
her  former  chums  in  the  company — Bobbie  had  to  tell  too 
many  tall  tales  about  her  recently  deceased  uncle  in  the  West, 
whose  will  had  given  each  member  of  her  family  a  small 
competence;  too  often  had  she  contradicted  herself  on  de- 
tails. 

It  was  inevitable  that  she  should  come  to  avoid  them  and 
seek  those  who  had  no  horror  of  Hugo's  place  in  her  life; 
should  come  to  despise  them  finally  as  "softies,"  "sillies," 
who  did  not  have  the  sense  to  take  the  good  things  as  they 
were  offered. 


66  God's  Man 

In  tHe  new  mode  of  life  that  came  to  pass  through  the  ad- 
vice of  these  more  sophisticated  ladies  Hugo's  allowance  was 
severely  taxed  to  pay  the  bills.  Such  young  persons  never  by 
any  chance  walked  if  a  taxicab  was  anywhere  in  evidence; 
nor  were  there  more  than  one  or  two  places  on  the  Avenue 
sufficiently  expensive  to  gain  the  approbation  for  frocks  and 
hats.  They  "dressed"  after  six  o'clock  as  punctiliously  as  if 
they  were  to  dine  at  a  Plaza  palace  and  frowned  on  male 
friends  who  did  not  do  the  same.  They  lived  in  luxurious 
apartments,  furnished  exquisitely  by  giving  a  certain  "lady 
decorator"  carte  blanche  to  procure  tapestries  of  the  cor- 
rectly faded  sort,  real  rugs  from  the  actual  Orient,  pictures 
by  painters  of  some  reputation,  and  "period"  furniture;  and 
they  counted  that  night  lost  when,  after  the  theater,  they  did 
not  show  off  a  new  gown  in  some  smart  supper-place,  or  give 
an  affair  of  their  own  in  a  private  dining-room,  or  at  their 
own  apartments. 

One  autumn  night  Bobbie  gave  her  first  supper  party — one 
that  was  to  christen  the  new  and  expensive  flat  in  "Devon- 
shire Mansions."  Information  of  it  was  telephoned  in  to 
the  city  editor  of  The  Argus  by  one  of  those  anonymous 
persons  called  "tipsters,"  who  earn  some  sort  of  a  living  by 
betraying  their  friends'  secrets.  This  one  gave  full  details 
of  Bobbie's  party  and  her  guests ;  and  the  news  came  in  time 
to  send  a  reporter  to  investigate.  The  bargain  was  that  the 
story  should  be  "exclusive"  for  the  first  edition,  which  went 
out  of  town;  the  tip  would  not  be  telephoned  again  except 
for  later  editions  of  the  other  Democratic  papers,  and  the 
cheque  was  to  be  sent  pay-day  to  John  Jones  Smith,  Poste 
Restante. 

Hanging  up  the  receiver,  the  city  editor  looked  around  for 
the  best  man  in  the  "shop"  to  detail  on  so  important  a  "story." 
Arnold  L'Hommedieu  was  in  the  act  of  resuming  his  dress 
coat,  having  returned  early  from  the  German  Theater  in 
Irving  Place  to  write  his  review  of  the  first  performance  in 


Catastrophe  67 

America  of  a  Wedekind  one-acter.  Arnold's  knowledge  of 
German  made  his  visits  to  the  Irving  Place  Theater  frequent ; 
just  as  his  knowledge  of  music  sent  him — paradoxically,  pes- 
simists would  claim — to  light  operas  and  revues. 

But  The  Argus  permitted  no  man  an  exclusive  specialty, 
and,  though  ordinarily  Arnold  would  have  gone  home  after 
writing  his  criticism,  he  felt  no  resentment  when  the  city 
editor  called  his  name  across  the  crowded  noisy  room. 

"Story  for  the  first  edition,"  said  the  city  editor,  thrusting 
the  telephoned  notes  in  Arnold's  hand.  "As  much  as  you 
can  write  and  take  chances  on  setting  it.  I'll  hold  a  column 
anyhow — double  score  head — double-leaded  lead.  Pay  some 
phone  girl  extra  to  send  it  in  while  you  write  it.  It  needs  a 
good  man  to  get  over  the  delicate  parts.  It's  a  great  story, 
L'Hommedieu.  Means  our  party  'ull  carry  that  county." 
He  gave  him  two  twenty-dollar  bills.  "Don't  spare  any  ex- 
pense— and  rush !  It's  only  exclusive  for  the  first  edition. 
Rush !" 

It  could  not  have  been  said  that  he  spoke  the  last  word; 
he  exploded  it.  Arnold  flew  down  the  stairs.  Not  until  he 
was  in  a  subway  express  thundering  on  its  way  up-town  did 
he  glance  at  the  sheet  of  folded  "copy"  paper.  Then  he 
started  so  violently  that  he  was  thrown  heavily  against  one  of 
those  eternally  vigilant  and  suspicious  women  who  take  even 
such  an  untoward  accident  as  evidence  of  the  general  deprav- 
ity of  the  male  sex. 

Arnold  stared  helplessly  at  the  paper,  then  began  bitterly 
to  swear  in  tune  with  the  thunder  of  the  express.  Why  had 
he  not  looked  at  the  paper  and  told  the  city  editor  that  the 
man  was  one  of  his  best  friends,  and  what  he  asked  impossible, 
for  the  brief  notes  included  the  names  of  John  Waldemar, 
Hugo  and  Bobbie  Beulah. 

The  Honnible  Johnnie  was  both  Republican  and  the  "Re- 
form" Candidate  this  time.  The  Democratic  Machine  had 
been  allowing  loose  road-houses  and  similarly  disguised 


68  God's  Man 

brothels  to  flourish  in  Sussex  County  as  long  as  they  showed 
a  commendable  and  patriotic  desire  to  assist  the  Machine  to 
rule  the  people  reasonably. 

The  Republicans  had  interested  the  pulpit,  but  another 
sort  than  that  presided  over  by  Jorian  L'Hommedieu;  this 
being  a  subject  that  would  provide  sensational  sermons  to 
attract  congregations  back  from  the  moving-picture  shows. 
Stump  speakers  had  reminded  citizens  of  Sodom  and  Gomor- 
rah, and  had  urged  the  killing  of  the  canker-worm  that  would 
destroy  that  morality  for  which  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  was 
famous — most  of  this  being  line  for  line  from  some  of  Mr. 
Waldemar's  famous  public  speeches. 

One  did  not  need  to  be  a  newspaper  reporter  to  realize  the 
significance  of  the  remaining  notes:  "His  son  is  giving  a 
chorus-girl  supper  party  to  his  girl — Devonshire  Mansions. 
Has  rooms  in  East  38th  Street,  but  never  uses  them.  Get 
the  Devonshire  elevator  man  and  the  door  man  (both  places) 
to  confirm  this.  Then  get  a  look  at  the  supper  party  on 
some  pretext  even  if  they  kick  you  out  afterward.  .  .  ." 

Why  hadn't  he  read  this  in  the  office?  The  city  editor 
would  have  understood  and  sympathized  when  he  explained 
how  dear  a  friend  Hugo  was.  Well,  he  would  do  the  next 
best  thing.  He  would  telephone  from  Fourteenth  Street,  BO 
that  only  the  few  minutes  of  the  journey  were  wasted. 

The  express  grated  and  screeched  to  a  stop  and  Arnold 
plunged  out  of  subterranea,  searching  a  public  telephone.  But 
as  he  reached  it  he  realized  there  would  be  no  difference  in 
the  results,  whether  he  wrote  the  story  or  another.  The 
scandal  would  ruin  the  chances  of  Waldemar's  election  just 
as  surely;  the  father,  justly  violent,  might  drown  Hugo;  cut 
him  off — poor  Hugo,  who,  since  his  chemicals  had  been  taken 
away  before  he  had  mastered  them,  had  not  the  faintest  trace 
of  ability  to  support  himself.  For  the  moment  Arnold's 
Puritan  conscience  was  torn  between  duty  to  his  paper  and 
to  his  friend ;  but  not  for  long.  It  would  not  harm  the  paper 
not  to  print  the  story ;  it  would  ruin  his  friend. 


Catastrophe  69 

He  hailed  a  taxi  driver  and  promised  him  an  extra  tip  for 
speed. 

Arriving  at  Devonshire  Mansions — one  of  those  huge  piles 
of  ornamental  stucco,  with  Parian  marble  and  atrocious  "art" 
in  the  lobby,  and  many  manufactured  palms,  all  beloved  by 
the  ostentatious  Manhattanese — he  was  admitted  by  a  boy  in 
a  uniform  and  buttons  that  would  have  done  credit  to  a  Eear- 
Admiral,  levitated  skyward  by  another  and  admitted  to  a 
rosy-papered  apartment  by  Hugo's  valet,  Tompkins.  Hugo, 
pushing  into  the  hall  at  the  sound  of  the  bell,  gave  an  in- 
articulate cry  of  joy;  for  never  before  had  Arnold  consented 
thus  to  honor  such  fetes.  Before  he  could  explain  that  his 
taste  had  suffered  no  relapse,  Hugo's  huge  paws  impelled  him 
violently  toward  an  open  doorway.  Bobbie,  standing  on  the 
table  in  a  mock  reverential  attitude,  about  to  rechristen  in  a 
costly  vintage,  a  young  man  whose  patrician  features  gave 
rise  to  the  suspicion  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  improve  on 
his  hereditary  patronymic,  jumped  down,  echoing  Hugo's 
boisterous  welcome.  Whereupon  the  entire  party  of  young 
men  and  women,  all  in  evening  dress  that  bore  the  marks  of 
superior  shops  and  some  imagination,  kept  up  the  reputation 
for  originality,  for  which  such  parties  are  famous,  by  gather- 
ing around  the  newcomer,  glasses  upraised,  and  chanting  lus- 
tily and  unmelodiously :  "For  he's  a  jolly  good  fellow — "  oft 
repeated;  a  statement  that  did  great  credit  to  their  penetra- 
tion, for  Arnold's  face  was  as  glum  as  possible ;  during  which 
entertainment  Hugo,  as  host,  hastily  poured  half  a  pint  of 
wine  on  the  floor  in  the  process  of  getting  half  a  gill  into  a 
glass  that,  willy  nilly,  must  be  thrust  into  Arnold's  hand. 
Several  of  the  wilder  spirits  whereupon  hoisted  Arnold  on 
the  table,  demanding  some  a  speech,  the  majority  a  song;  the 
hired  negro  entertainers  obliging  with  a  pot-pourri  of  popular 
tunes,  signaling  encouragement  and  requesting  selection. 

Had  Arnold  followed  his  inclinations  he  would  have  hurled 
his  wine  into  Hugo's  eyes  and  broken  the  glass  on  his  head. 
There  came  to  his  mind  among  other  unpleasant  things  some 


70  God's  Man 

remembrance  of  a  Persian  revel,  and  a  handwriting  large 
upon  the  wall.  He  swayed  and  teetered  on  the  flimsy  table, 
trying  to  dismount,  but  the  laughing  throng  prevented,  young 
Colin  Rhynshinder  holding  his  knees.  "Speech,"  demanded 
thickly  this  heir  to  an  ancient  name;  "Speech.  Gotta  have 
speech.  He's  a  jolly  good  fel-low,  and  jolly  good  fellows 
gotta  make  speeches." 

And,  all  the  while,  those  reporters  from  the  other  papers 
were  getting  ready  to  make  a  descent,  unallied  with  sentiment, 
upon  a  worse  scene  than  Arnold  had  suspected.  More  than 
the  usual  number  of  wine-glasses  had  been  broken,  more  than 
the  average  number  of  girls  had  had  their  hair  disordered  by 
the  clumsy  embraces  of  men  not  sober,  more  torn  dresses  were 
pinned  up  after  having  been  trodden  on  by  turkey-trotters, 
and  the  glass  tops  of  center-tables  and  mantel  were  a  mass  of 
smoldering  cigars  and  cigarettes,  tossed  down  without  being 
extinguished — a  foul  reek.  Altogether,  just  the  sort  of  local 
color  necessary  to  a  highly  successful  newspaper  "story"  of 
Little  Sons  of  the  Eich  and  chorus-girls. 

"A  speech?  All  right!"  said  Arnold  bitterly.  "All  right" 
he  shouted,  for  only  shouting  was  in  order.  "I'll  make  a 
speech — " 

"He  sees  he's  gotta  make  speech,"  cried  young  Colin, 
delighted.  "Hurray.  One— two— three— and  a  tiger." 
They  welcomed  an  excuse  to  make  more  entrancing  noises, 
and  Arnold,  inwardly  groaning,  wondered  if  there  might  be 
reporters  in  hiding  across  the  street ;  if  so,  those  shouts  were 
enough  proof  to  print  the  story. 

"You  wanted  a  speech,"  he  began. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  young  Colin  gravely.    "Aye,  aye,  sir." 

"Listen,"  said  Arnold  sharply,  "keep  still." 

"Silence  for  the  reverend  gentleman,"  said  a  girl,  laughing 
shrilly,  believing  this  humor.  "Amen,"  said  another  in  the 
deep  bass  which  had  gained  her  a  wholly  false  reputation  as 
a  mimic. 

"Listen;  listen!"  clamored  Arnold.     "Everybody's  got  to 


Catastrophe  71 

go  quick  and  quietly.  Don't  take  taxis  in  front  of  the  house 
here ;  telephone  for  them  to  be  sent  two  blocks  down.  Hurry, 
get  your  things,  get  out.  And  quiet — quiet.  There's  a  story 
out  about  this  party ;  reporters  'ull  be  here  in  half  an  hour — 
any  minute.  And  if  all  of  you  don't  want  to  see  your  names 
in  the  papers  to-morrow  morning — hurry.  You  don't  under- 
stand!" This  in  reply  to  a  question  from  the  now  half-sober 
Rhynshinder  as  to  what  business  of  newspapers  was  a  private 
party.  It  was  plain  most  of  the  others,  too,  regarded  Arnold's 
speech  as  a  joke  in  poor  taste — "You  don't  understand? 
Well,  isn't  Hugo's  father  running  on  a  Reform  Ticket? 
To  reform  what  ?  All-night  turkey-trotting  road-houses ! 
Get  the  point?  He'll  lose  the  election  if  you  keep  going  on 
ten  minutes  longer." 

Rhynshinder,  now  completely  sober,  mentally,  although  his 
body  refused  radical  measures,  turned  to  the  others,  sketching 
rapidly  what  was  not  clear  to  them.  "We've  gotta  blow — 
quick.  Come  on,  Hetty.  Good  night,  everybody.  You 
know  my  things,  don't  you,  Tompkins  ?" 

"This  way,  sir,"  said  Hugo's  valet,  leading  them  off  to  a 
bedroom  pressed  into  service  as  a  cloak-room. 

"No  noise — remember/'  Arnold  called  after  them.  But  it 
was  unnecessary  to  warn  Rhynshinder;  he  had  something  to 
lose  himself  from  any  such  story — a  rich  wife,  for  instance, 
the  only  hope  of  his  creditors — and  his  one  wish  was  now, 
that  he  had  not  been  inspired  to  imitate  the  "humor"  of  some 
royal  foreigner,  said  to  have  used  a  dancer's  slipper  for  a 
drinking  cup.  This  shoe  had  been  Hetty's  and  she  now  reso- 
lutely refused  to  limp,  "like  a  broken-legged  duck." 

"If  you'd  get  shoes  your  size  a  little  champagne  wouldn't 
hurt  'em,"  he  snarled. 

Arnold  dashed  into  Bobbie's  dressing-room,  returning  with 
a  pair  of  patent  pumps.  "Oh,  they're  much  too  large"  ob- 
jected Miss  Hetty,  a  statement  to  which  Miss  Bobbie  took 
instant  umbrage,  a  feminine  word-battle  ensuing,  only  broken 
short  by  Rhynshinder  crying  aloud  to  Heaven  in  exasperation 


72  God's  Man 

and  pushing  his  lady  to  the  door,  Hetty  carrying  the  pumps 
gingerly  between  jeweled  fingers. 

Meanwhile,  Arnold,  urging  on  the  others,  had  cleared  the 
room,  and,  assisted  by  Tompkins  and  the  maid,  was  hastily  re- 
storing it  to  an  appearance  of  order,  paying  no  sort  of  atten- 
tion to  those  emerging  dressed  for  the  street.  These  insisted 
on  dallying,  even  at  such  a  time,  annoying  the  worried  Hugo 
and  Bobbie  with  the  conventional  banalities  regarding  the 
pleasant  evening  spent.  It  was  not  until  the  hall  lock  had 
snapped  on  the  last  of  them  that  Arnold  spoke  again. 

"How  much  cash  have  you  ?"  He  took  the  roll  of  crumpled 
bills  Hugo  produced.  "Now  go  and  get  the  elevator  man  and 
the  hall  porter."  This  to  Tompkins,  who  hastened  off;  "A 
fine  mess  you've  landed  in,  my  boy.  I'd  like  to  know  which 
of  those  friends  gets  his  living  by  telephoning  scandal  to 
newspapers.  Go  put  on  your  night-dress,  Bobbie.  You, 
Hugo,  get  back  to  your  rooms  and  divide  this  between  your 
elevator  man  and  hall  porter."  He  had  halved  the  roll  and 
now  thrust  half  forward.  "I'll  attend  to  them,  here.  While 
they're  up,  walk  down  and  out." 

"But  the  money — the  cash — what's  it  for?"  stammered 
Hugo  heavily. 

"Oh,  thickhead !"  returned  Arnold  wearily.  "So  they'll  tell 
the  reporters  you're  never  there  at  night,  of  course.  That's 
what  you  want  them  to  know,  don't  you  ?  You  might  add, 
gratis,  that  you're  seldom  sober  and  beat  your  father  when  in 
drink.  All  that  sort  of  thing  helps  a  man  to  be  elected." 
As  some  comprehension  came  to  Hugo's  tired  eyes  Arnold 
heard  Tompkins  in  the  hall  and  pushed  Hugo  into  the  dining- 
room.  "Step  out  when  they  come  in,"  he  added,  sliding  the 
folding-doors;  and,  then,  under  the  escort  of  Tompkins,  the 
two  Rear- Admirals  entered,  their  hands  heavy  with  the  weight 
of  the  gold  braid  on  their  caps. 

"There'll  be  some  reporters  here  soon,"  Arnold  told  them 
succinctly.  "They'll  ask  you  if  there  was  a  party  here  to- 


Catastrophe  73 

night,  who  was  in  it,  and  whether  Mr,  Hugo  Waldemar 
doesn't  live  here  ?  You'll  look  amazed.  Look  as  though  you 
think  they're  crazy.  They'll  offer  you  money,  but  not  this 
much."  He  dangled  the  remaining  bank-notes,  allowing  close 
inspection ;  "And  this  is  what  you'll  get  if  there's  nothing  in 
the  papers  to-morrow.  If  there  is,  what  the  reporters  give 
you  will  have  to  support  you  until  you  get  new  uniforms,  for 
you'll  lose  those  you're  wearing  now  when  Miss  Beulah  moves 
out,  explaining  to  the  agent  that  it's  because  the  servants  talk 
too  much.  .  .  ." 

They  began,  as  do  all  professional  bribe-takers,  with  re- 
proachful asseverations  of  their  high  integrity.  Arnold  cut 
them  short.  "Then  you  never  heard  of  Mr.  Waldemar — 
wouldn't  know  him  if  you  saw  him  ?" 

"He  never  comes  here  on  our  shift,"  said  the  larger  Kear- 
Admiral — a  Vice-Admiral,  this  one.  "The  night  shift,"  he 
added  slyly,  but  with  an  open  candid  glance.  Arnold 
laughed  grimly,  was  then  ashamed.  Why,  unless  they  were 
tipped,  should  these  men  care  what  happened  to  the  wasteful, 
noisy,  often  insulting  people  of  the  White  Light  Social  Eegis- 
ter  ?  No  doubt  these  tips  were  bestowed,  unselfishly  enough, 
on  their  children,  for  whom  they  hoped,  at  no  distant  date,  to 
provide  a  better  playground  than  the  New  York  streets,  where, 
daily,  they  were  exposed  to  the  danger  of  just  such  people's 
motor-cars.  "Very  well,"  he  said  briefly,  but  not  unkindly. 
"See  to  it." 

So,  when  another  reporter  came  later,  asking  for  Miss 
Beulah,  as  though  she  was  in  the  habit  of  receiving  him  at  a 
late  hour,  Rear-Admiral  No.  2  bore  him  skyward  and  Miss 
Beulah's  maid,  rubbing  her  eyes  and  holding  together  her 
dressing-gown,  said  her  mistress  could  see  nobody. 

"It  was  as  quiet  as  Woodlawn  Cemetery :  no  lights,  nothing. 
And  the  elevator  man  hadn't  seen  anybody  go  up  there  to-night 
— not  even  after  I  showed  hifti  a  ten-spot.  Somebody's  been 
stringing  us."  Thus  spoke  the  delegate  of  the  district  re- 


74  God's  Man 

porters,  returning  to  his  comrades,  waiting  in  their  favorite 
cafe. 

"Sure:  we  know  that,"  said  another  looking  up  from  his 
poker-hand — the  delegate  who  had  gone  to  Hugo's  apartments : 
"Waldemar's  in  bed  with  a  toothache  and  he's  always  there 
at  night.  Nobody  but  a  spiteful  dame  could  have  phoned  in 
a  foolish  tip  like  that." 

But  the  city  editor  of  Arnold's  paper  knew  better,  for  next 
day  a  letter  from  the  tipster  explained  how  Arnold's  machina- 
tions had  made  his  tip  miscarry;  and  Arnold,  after  making 
sure  there  was  none  within  earshot,  made  no  effort  to  deny 
this.  "He  was  one  of  my  two  best  friends,  Mr.  Chapin,"  he  ex- 
plained simply;  "to  print  that  story  meant  to  ruin  him  for 
life."  .And  he  repeated  the  argument  with  which  he  had 
convinced  himself.  "It  didn't  hurt  the  paper  not  to  print  it 
and  it  would  have  ruined  him." 

Chapin  looked  at  him  grimly.  "Of  course,  you  know  you're 
fired,"  he  said. 

Arnold  bowed. 

"But  don't  go  out  under  the  impression  that  you're  any 
martyr.  Unless  Benedict  Arnold  and  Judas  were  martyrs.  If 
we'd  printed  that  story,  we  might  have  kept  that  unscrupulous 
rascal  out  of  Congress  again — another  one  who  gets  fat  on 
misery  and  degradation.  You've  elected  him." 

But  Arnold,  recalling  the  bluff  jolly  face  of  John  Waldemar, 
his  charities  and  his  church-going,  put  down  this  statement  to 
partisan  prejudice. 

"And  more  than  that — to  show  you  what  I  think  of  a 
man  who'd  do  what  you  did,"  said  the  city  editor,  rising 
from  his  chair,  "I'll  blacklist  you  in  every  decent  newspaper 
shop.  We  don't  get  the  goods  on  many  fat  rascals,  and  we 
can't  take  any  chances  having  our  work  destroyed  by  having 
Little  Brothers  of  the  Eich  for  reporters.  Go  and  work  for 
your  friends,  the  Waldemar  kind:  you'll  never  work  for  a 
decent  sheet  again.  .  .  ." 


Catastrophe  75 

All  of  which  Arnold  found  to  be  true  enough  when  next 
day,  next  week,  and  next  month,  he  hunted  for  another  berth. 

"If  he'd  give  them  the  gaff  he'd  just  as  soon  do  it  to  us," 
argued  city  editors,  for  his  guilt  had  been  represented  un- 
fairly, the  narrators  considering  as  negligible  the  story  of  the 
"best  friend,"  and  telling  the  tale  from  the  standpoint  that 
young  Waldemar  was  wealthy  and  how  he  ha.d  made  it  worth 
young  L'Hommedieu's  while. 

It  was  soon  after  he  left  The  Argus  that  Arnold  moved 
from  his  comfortable  rooms  near  Gramercy  Park,  one  collat- 
eral Van  Vhroon  informing  the  other,  when  Archie  asked  for 
information  almost  a  week  later,  that  he  imagined  young 
L'Hommedieu  was  a  sad  dog:  running  away  from  a  girl  like 
that.  .  .  . 

"Like  what?"  Archie's  eyes  did  not  twinkle  as  they  might 
have  done  in  the  case  of  any  other  man  whose  engagement 
in  gallantry  had  had  undesired  results.  .  .  .  Arnold  was 
.  .  .  Arnold. 

Whereupon  the  older  collateral  Van  Vhroon  described  a 
certain  "splendid  girl" — and  described  Carol  accurately.  Carol 
it  was,  right  enough:  Arnold  having  returned  some  signed 
and  otherwise  inscribed  photographs  found  in  a  trunk,  long 
unused.  .  .  .  And,  although  Archie  had  picked  out  the 
apartment  they  were  to  occupy  .  .  . 

Fortunately,  Archie's  estimation  of  Carol's  charms  was  as 
inaccurate  as  his  belief  in  her  integrity — hence  the  other's  de- 
scription meant  nothing  to  him.  "Sold  his  things,  shipped 
his  books  home  and  skipped,  leaving  no  address.  .  .  ." 

At  The  Argus  they  refused  to  hear  any  mention  of  Ar- 
nold's name.  It  was  then  that  Archie,  hearing  about  Hugo, 
began  to  realize  why.  Hugo's  loudly  advertised  suicidal  in- 
tentions failed  to  alter  the  situation:  Arnold  was  not  to  be 
found. 

They  would  never  have  thought  to  look  for  him  in  those 
depths  of  Manhattan  to  which  he  was  to  descend,  and  from 


76  God's  Man 

which  he  was  to  emerge  some  six  months  later,  sick  of  soul 
and  body:  ready  to  become  that  rebel  against  the  laws  the 
I/Honunedieus  had  upheld  for  half  a  millennium,  that  noto- 
rious rebel  he  was  soon  to  be. 
Which  is  also  the  story  of  Annie  Eunice  Chasserton. 


END  OF  BOOK  I 


BOOK  II 


CHAPTER    ONE 

ARNOLD'S  ADVENTURES  IN  PLUNDERLAND 
I.   LITTLE  ONE  AND  VELVET  VOICE 

OME  centuries  later  (so  it 
seemed),  on  a  certain  night  in 
January,  Arnold  awoke  in  an- 
other room  than  that  one  in 
which  he  had  gone  to  sleep. 
But,  inside  hall  rooms  in  Man- 
hattan being  almost  identical, 
he  did  not  immediately  realize 
this.  Beside  the  Hotel  Tippe- 
canoe's  similarity  was  not  con- 
fined to  shape  and  size  but 
included  contour  and  content 
— dark  gray  bed  and  bedding — 
white  to  optimists  only;  chair 
in  collapse,  trunk  in  contempt— or  shrunken  suit-case.  And 
"bureau"  ... 

Were  an  historian  always  an  artist  ordered  about  by  an 
orderly  conscience,  he  would  begin  and  end  with  that  bureau. 
Serried  with  scratches  and  Saturn-ringed  by  wet  tumblers 
whose  economy  of  size  betrayed  the  saturnine  liquid  spilt,  just 
as  surely  as  the  sizes  of  certain  concurrent  circles  went  to 
show  that  tea  or  coffee  had  splashed  out  of  certain  cups  or 
over  certain  saucers  ...  the  "bureaus"  of  inside  hall 
rooms  in  Manhattan  are  records  as  plain  as  the  pikestaff  of  the 
amateur  symbolist. 


80  God's  Man 

In  the  case  of  the  room  in  which  Arnold  found  himself, 
Rome  of  the  hideousness  of  this  material  realism  was  hidden 
by  a  bureau  cover  of  corrugated  burlap:  the  super-cardinal 
color-scheme  of  which  was  ameliorated  in  its  turn  by  some 
semi-silver  somethings  which — as  obviously  as  the  semi-satin 
skirt  protruding  from  beneath  the  semi-circular  protection 
of  a  semi-silken  wall-cloth — he  had  never  owned.  .  .  . 

But  the  single  window  here  was  as  cobweb-festooned  as  his 
own;  was  otherwise  as  opaque;  the  grime  of  twice  yesterday's 
ten  thousand  days  having  settled  there. 

Arnold  observed  also  that  the  single  jet  was  as  short  and 
as  slender  and  as  lacking  in  ambition  as  his  own.  Minimum 
burners  had  failed  the  management  until  the  installation  of 
gasometers  like  toy  banks  and  as  greedy  of  dimes,  dimes 
yielded  just  as  grudgingly.  .  .  .  No ! — this  jet  had  even 
less  altitude.  .  .  .  Then  he  noticed  that  its  superlative 
dimness  was  due  to  a  small  saucepan  .  .  .  that  dragon 
which,  until  the  onslaught  of  St.  George  of  the  Gasometer,  ate 
up  all  the  profits  of  those  who  rented  rooms  to  impecunious 
light-housekeepers.  .  .  . 

Arnold's  gaze  swiveled  toward  the  only  unexamined  angle 
of  the  room.  And  there  sat  two  girls,  their  backs  toward  him ; 
from  their  position  evidently  hugging  the  "radiator" ! — a  po- 
sition indicating  either  childlike  faith,  or  powerful  imagina- 
tion. 

Arnold  knew  too  much  about  this  monster  to  find  in  the 
girls'  juxtaposition  any  explanation  of  what  he  continued  to 
consider  a  rather  remarkable  and  remarkably  cheeky  intrusion. 
...  It  was  half  an  hour  before  it  occurred  to  him  that 
if  he  aroused  himself  from  his  apathetic  abandon,  he  might 
connect  effect  with  cause  by  a  process  no  more  complex  than 
listening  to  their  whispered  conversation.  So  far,  this  had 
been  but  a  confused  buzzing.  He  opened  his  eyes. 

The  smaller  of  the  two  was  leaning  forward,  a  tiny  hand 
on  the  other's  knee.  "Zen — w'at  you  do,  zen,  girl?" 

"Then/'  replied  the  other,  her  tone  tired:  "well,  then,  I 


Plunder  land  81 

thought  I'd  move  to  a  cheaper  place  so's  not  to  be  broke 
next  time/' 

The  sympathetic  quality  of  her  voice,  its  velvety  richness, 
or  throatiness,  seemed  to  say  that  displays  of  emotion  were 
prevented  by  a  strong  effort.  This  odd  voice  affected  Arnold 
curiously.  One  of  his  sort  in  his  weakened  state  is  free  of 
bodily  cravings  and  quick  to  visualize.  .  .  .  (Which  is 
possibly  why  decadence  grew  out  of  impressionism — both  orig- 
inally accidental.) 

This  particular  impression  if  pictured  would  have  resulted 
in  a  slim  necked,  crinoline  girl  fingering  a  harpsichord,  a 
China  bowl  of  powdered  blue — blue  roses — a  blue  room  .  .  . 
drawing-room  .  .  .  Jacobean  ...  its  old  damask  and 
dim  faded,  Chinois  tapestries  .  .  .  like  those  of  a  certain 
L'Hommedieu  guest  chamber.  The  picture  vanished  however 
Before  Arnold  could  master  its  details. 

The  Little  One  was  speaking  again. 

"Zot  ees  good?  Leev  like  beggars-woman?  Zot  is  'appy, 
hein?  Oh,  joyful.  Look,  girl.  Eef  a  man  'e  own  a  motor-car 
w'at  break  down — from  too  much  'ard  work — must  zhe  chauf- 
feur 'e  save  'is  money  to  pay?  You  just  like  zat:  you  work 
too  'ard  for  'im :  zen  you  break  down — zen  'im  what  owns  the 
machine  let  'im  pay  ze  doctor  bills.  .  .  .  Your  lofely 
eyes,  red  too.  But  w'at  zey  care  ?  Nuzzings !  .  .  ." 

She  spoke  with  many  spreadings  of  the  palms,  jerkings  of 
the  head,  elevations  of  the  shoulders.  In  her  mischief  incar- 
nate became  repressed  energy,  standing  she  seemed  perpetually 
balanced  insecurely  for  a  spring;  sitting  she  oscillated  like  a 
rubber  ball  on  an  inclined  plane.  .  .  .  Closing  his  eyes 
Arnold  thought  of  a  squirrel  first  listening,  then  up  and  away. 
.  .  .  Opening  them  again  he  became  aware  of  an  excep- 
tional, if  artificial,  daintiness :  her  hair  was  abundant  but  art- 
fully coifed  to  suit  her  small  head  and  add  to  her  height,  her 
cherry-colored  kimono,  a  miracle  of  cleanliness  (and  in  such 
a  house!)  was  so  closely  belted  it  seemed  form-fitting.  Thus 
she  sat,  the  soles  of  her  slim  pitter-patter  foreign  shoes  rested 


82  God's  Man 

on  the  radiator  and  tipped  back  the  rickety  chair  at  a  danger- 
ous angle.  / 

"Jus'  like  zat,"  she  repeated,  with  the  gesture  of  an  equi- 
librist who  has  just  achieved  some  difficult  feat,  or  of  a 
philosopher  having  acquitted  himself  satisfactorily  of  some 
knotty  problem.  , 

"He  couldn't  afford  it,  poor  man,"  returned  Velvet  Voice. 
"Racing  overtime  to  keep  one  jump  ahead  of  the  bankruptcy 
court.  And  the  rent  he  pays  for  that  tiny  top-story  loft! 
Small  ones  like  him  have  to  take  on  contracts  that  are  simply 
awful.  The  work's  just  got  to  be  done  in  so  many  days.  Why 
— our  wages  for  two  days  behind  take  every  cent  of  his  profit. 
And  for  three  days!  Forfeit!  Pay  them,  mind  you.  His 
month  and  our  month  all  for  nothing.  Worse  than  that:  it 
loses  him  money.  But  .  .  " 

She  laughed  sympathetically.  "But,  nowadays,  when  it 
looks  like  he'll  have  to  forfeit,  we  go  on  strike — " 

The  Little  One's  back  stiffened,  as  though  the  temptation  to 
prefer  charges  of  mendacity  was  restrained  with  difficulty. 
Her  face,  which  Arnold  could  not  see,  must  have  betrayed  her. 

"It's  true!"  Velvet  Voice  laughed  again.  "The  poor  have 
to  stick  together.  And  he's  poor,  all  right.  .  .  .  You  see, 
if  we  strike,  there's  no  forfeit.  Strikes  are  in  all  contracts. 
We've  'struck'  twice  just  to  help  him.  He  doesn't  make  any- 
thing off  of  us." 

"Oo  izzit  zen?"  inquired  the  Little  One,  as  if  humoring  the 
illogic  of  a  child.  "You  zink  he  mus'  to  get — take  zose  con- 
tracks." 

"He  can't  get  the  decent  ones — not  many.  They  go  to  the 
big  fellows.  We  only  get  the  left-overs,  the  coarse  cheap  work 
the  big  firms  don't  want.  And  I've  heard  the  little  fellows  tell 
Simonski  that  if  they  have  to  pay  him  decent  prices,  they'll 
have  to  shut  up  shop.  And  it's  so.  He  explained  it  to  me." 

"You  talk  foolish — I  never  'ear  nobody  so  foolish.  You 
work  for  nuzzing.  You  say  'e  work  for  nuzzing.  And  now 


Plunderland  83 

ze  shops  don't  make  nuzzing.  Nobody.  Zat  is  impossible; 
not?" 

"The  little  stores  have  to  sell  too  cheap  to  make  much 
profit,"  explained  Velvet  Voice.  "They're  almost  as  poor  as 
we  are,  those  little  fellows.  If  they  don't,"  she  added,  antici- 
pating the  question,  "everybody  goes  to  the  big  ones." 

"Zen  zey  ge-getze  money,"  said  the  little  foreigner  trium- 
phantly. "Rein  ?"  The  other  nodded.  "Zen  zey  can  pay.  You 
go  work  for  zem,  girl.  Zere  you  are.  Jus'  like  zat." 

"They  get  it  all,"  responded  the  other  bitterly. 

"Zen  zey  can  pay.  You  work  for  zem.  Zere  you  are.  Jus* 
like  zat"  " 

"But  they  don't  have  to.  The  others  can't,  so  they  won't. 
If  you  don't  like  it,  find  some  other  place.  There  isn't  any. 
So  there  you  are.  Just  like  that — " 

She  imitated  the  Little  One  mischievously,  but  her  gaiety 
was  only  momentary. 

"You  can't  tell  me  anything  about  working  in  New  York. 
Big  department  stores,  little  specialty  places,  big  manufac- 
tories and  sweatshops — I've  tried  them  all.  And  I  like  some 
so-called  sweatshops  best — where  you  don't  have  to  keep  up 
any  front;  where  they  don't  expect  you  to  spend  all  you  make 
on  clothes.  That's  the  crudest  part  about  the  big  ones.  When 
some  investigation  starts,  they  say :  'If  they  wouldn't  put  it  all 
on  their  lacks!'  .  .  .  And  they'll  fire  you  if  you  don't. 
Come  to  work  looking  shabby  and  they'll  say :  'Nix  with  that 
"poor  working  girl,  God  defend  her"  stuff.  That's  why  we 
pay  you  extra — so's  to  look  decent/  Oh,  it's  a  scream !" 

She  threw  back  her  head  and,  despite  her  velvet  voice, 
laughed  unmelodiously. 

"Eet  eez  f onny  becauze  you  are  not  gay,  girl  ?  Because  you 
do  not  lif?  And  all  for  nuzzings.  Zat  eez  fonny!" 

"Sure  it's  funny."  Velvet  Voice  was  still  laughing  harshly. 
Then  rising  to  stir  the  simmering  contents  of  the  saucepan: 
"Go  up  to  Central  Park  some  Sunday  and  see  the  cars  and 


84  God's  Man 

carriages,  and  look  at  the  men  in  'em  who  get  our  money. 
There  they  sit  and  their  chauffeurs  and  coachmen  are  always 
ten  times  better-looking.  And  there  they  sit — their  bosses. 
Little  fussy  side-whiskers,  little  round  stomachs,  or  little  flat 
chests,  trying  to  look  important.  Then  the  woman  alongside 
says  something.  Watch  'em  jump  like  pet  cats  being  stroked 
or  patted  on  the  head.  .  .  .  And  there  the  women  sit — 
their  bosses.  Then  look  at  them.  Such  fool  clothes !  Silks 
and  satins  and  velvets  and  crepes — for  out-of-doors!  And 
always  made  some  fool  way  dressmakers  call  'smart/  And 
they  look  all  wrong  and  out  of  place  in  them,  because  most  of 
'em  were  born  to  scrub  floors.  And  the  way  they  try  to  look 
proud  and  haughty !  And  not  knowing  how,  the  very  people 
they're  trying  to  make  good  with  just  laugh  and  sneer  at 
them.  *Look !'  I  heard  some  society  woman  say,  one  of  those 
tailor-made  ones  with  a  single-quill  hat;  one  that  looked 
'right* — one  Sunday  in  a  crush.  'How  hideous,  Molly!'  she 
says :  'And  the  creature's  diamonds !  Some  bookmaker's  wife, 
I  suppose.'  The  other  says  something  worse  than  that,  much 
worse." 

The  velvet  voice  held  that  quality  one  associates  with  a 
woman's  heightened  color.  "And  the  common  one  wasn't 
either  thing  they  thought.  She  was  the  wife  of  a  man  with 
the  biggest  shirt-waist  factory  in  town:  two  thousand  girls. 
And  all  working  their  heads  off  for  that  fat  woman  to  put  on 
fool-clothes  and  fool-jewelry  and  be  laughed  at.  You  can't 
do  anything  but  laugh."  She  arose  and  stirred  the  contents 
of  the  saucepan  again. 

"I  wouldn't,"  the  Little  One  returned  fiercely.  "I  wouldn't 
not;  net" 

"What  would  you  do?" 

The  question  was  asked  languidly,  with  no  hope  of  any  help- 
ful answer.  To  Arnold  it  seemed  that  Velvet  Voice  had  made 
an  exhaustive  study  of  her  personal  problem,  without  discov- 
ering the  angle  of  successful  vision,  therefore  mistrusted  any 
cursory  solutions.  Arnold  once  had  interviewed  a  life  convict; 


Plunderland  85 

her  attitude  was  similar:  her  prison,  the  world;  her  chances 
of  escape,  save  one,  the  same. 

The  Little  One  had  suddenly  toppled  her  rickety  chair  back. 
Bang !  One  tiny  hand  was  now  extended  dramatically.  But 
her  confidence  died  before  she  spoke;  such  was  the  other's 
steady  gaze,  and  her  words,  when  they  came,  were  not  dra- 
matic at  all. 

"Zere  are  ways,"  she  answered  shortly.  But  her  attitude 
seemed  to  indicate  that  one  needed  education  before  one  might 
understand.  .  .  .  But:  "Oh,  plenty  ways,"  was  all  she 
added,  aloud. 

"I  know  one"  said  Velvet  Voice.  "It  doesn't  appeal  to  me. 
I'm  not  saying  I'm  better  than  anybody,  but  to  have  drunken 
men  paw  you;  and  fools  dirtying  themselves  ...  to 
drink  hard  to  forget  how  rotten  you  are.  .  .  .  And  are 
you  any  better  off?  Instead  of  working  for  rabbit-men  and 
donkey-men  and  nice  little  dog-men,  you  work  for  nasty  little 
fox-men  and  wolf-men  and  hyena-men — policemen  and  poli- 
ticians and — " 

She  spoiled  what  should  have  been  a  profitable  lesson  in 
Anglo-Saxon  alliteration  for  the  little  alien,  finishing  lamely : 
".  .  .  don't  you  know!"  And  the  attitude  of  the  angry 
Little  One  added  emphatically,  this  time,  that  she  did. 

"Girl ! — You  don't  zink  zat  me — Sonetchka — zat  I  am  like 
zat — no  ?"  Arnold  saw  her  in  profile  now ;  nostrils  quivering, 
lips  trembling,  eyes  snapping.  "Girl! — you  don't  zink  zat 
I  am  like  zat  ?" 

"Why,  no,"  returned  Velvet  Voice,  startled.  "You  didn't 
think — "  Her  interpolator  as  though  electrically  shocked, 
leaped  across  and  into  her  arms,  crying  and  clinging  like  a 
helpless  child,  then  shaking  herself  like  a  pet  animal  after 
handling.  It  was  plain  she  lacked  either  humor,  or  its 
equivalent,  logic ;  else  could  she  have  resumed  the  role  of  pro- 
tector and  adviser — while  Velvet  Voice  continued  her  soothing 
pressure  of  one  tiny  hand. 

"You  can  use  my  rooms,  girl — you  sleep  wiz  me,"  said  the 


86  God's  Man 

Little  One  peremptorily.  "I  'ave  air  an'  light  and  I  'ave 
traveling  stove — alcool.  We  cook  nice  brikfas',  Jiein?  I  tell 
you,"  she  said  suddenly,  with  that  air  of  solving  problems  that 
sat  upon  her  so  grotesquely,  "I  hate  to  cook  brikfas'.  You 
be  my  cook :  I  pay  wiz  ze  brikfas'.  Say — jus'  like  zat — 'Yes, 
my  dear.'  Say  it,  girl." 

She  caught  Velvet  Voice's  hand.  "Yes,  my  dear,"  said 
Velvet  Voice  with  comic  obedience. 

"Well,  you  come,  come,"  urged  the  Little  One.  "Come, 
girl.  Sleep." 

"Leave  your  door  on  the  latch :  I'll  come  when  I've  fed  him 
this."  She  removed  the  saucepan  from  the  gas  and  poured  its 
contents  into  a  little  white  pitcher. 

"Poor  man,"  said  the  Little  One,  and  he  knew  she  was 
standing  over  him.  "Poor,  poor  mdlczech — "  ('mahlchick' 
the  word  sounded  to  Arnold  who  wondered  in  what  language 
it  had  a  meaning).  "Eet  is  good  zat  you  skr-skr-skr-skrim 
and  I  come  to  'elp  you,  girl!"  It  was  evident  she  used  the 
word  "girl"  as  a  term  of  affection.  "Newer  you  carry  'im 
yourself.  Too  'eavy.  'E  was  more  'eavier  not  soon  ago,  too," 
she  added,  touching  Arnold's  thin  drawn  cheeks  with  the 
pointed  tip  of  a  glittering  pink  finger-nail.  "Sometime  I  see 
zem  like  zat  in  the  Ghetto,  poor  schnorrers."  Her  pity  was 
cut  short  by  a  prodigious  yawn :  "Oh — I — aw — come  soon, 
girl" — and  took  herself  off  still  yawning  and  covering  her 
mouth  with  the  little  paw  of  the  pink  pointed  nails — for 
such  a  little  mouth  needed  rest  after  accomplishing  what 
would  have  altered  all  history  had  it  been  done  at  the  Tower  of 
Babel. 

As  the  door  closed,  Arnold  felt  a  gentle  tugging  at  the  sleeve 
of  his  shirt  (he  had  sold  his  last  pair  of  pajamas,  one  of  a 
dozen  silken  frogged  things,  Hugo's  Christmas-a-year  gift). 
The  tugging,  though  gentle,  was  insistent  as  was  the  velvet 
voice  that  kept  inquiring  if  he  heard.  He  opened  his  eyes. 

She  had  velvety  eyes,  too :  oval  face  with  an  old  ivory  pallor, 
aoft  dark  eyes,  eyes  almost  oblique,  eyes  almost  as  Oriental  as 


"*  Plunderland  87 

tier  oval  face.  Away  from  the  Little  One,  her  height  did  not 
by  many  inches  equal  his  own  five  feet  ten:  only  the  other's 
excessive  smallness  and  her  own  excessive  slenderness  had  made 
her  seem  so  tall. 

Arnold  was  a  match  for  her  there ;  it  would  be  difficult  for 
any  feminine  slenderness  to  match  the  thinness  of  five  months 
of  scanty  nourishment,  capped  by  four  weeks  of  sickness. 

"How  did  I  get  here?"  he  asked.    "Or  you?     .     .     ." 

"Drink  this,"  she  said. 

"But—,"  he  began. 

"Drink  first,"  she  insisted. 

It  seemed  that  the  saucepan  contained  a  combination  of 
oyster-liquor  and  milk :  grateful  warming  nourishment  for  one 
who  had  fasted  so  long.  With  an  effort  he  remembered  his 
manners.  Well  for  him  he  did :  the  shock  though  he  drank 
slowly  was  severe  enough  to  force  him  to  desist  until  a  sud- 
den burning  pain  should  subside. 

Perspiration  sprang  from  every  pore  and  lay  like  powdered 
cocaine  crystals  on  his  forehead ;  but  with  the  peacock  egotism 
of  the  male  when  in  the  presence  of  any  female  who  stirs,  con- 
sciously or  unconsciously,  his  sense  of  sex,  Arnold  locked  his 
eyes  and  set  his  teeth.  Weakness  by  the  mere  fact  of  her 
presence  had  become  humiliating.  And  how  bitterly  he  re- 
sented the  proof  that  concealment  had  failed,  when  she  began, 
openly,  to  pity  him. 

"Poor  boy,"  said  Velvet  Voice,  enjoying  her  mothering  im- 
mensely. "No  wonder." 

"ISTo  wonder  what?"  Arnold  asked,  opening  his  eyes,  with 
a  great  effort  of  will,  smiling.  She  did  not  answer,  so  he 
harked  back  to  Sonetchka's  fragmentary  speech. 

"You  and  she  carried  me  in  here,"  he  wondered  aloud. 
"Why?" 

"I  suppose  I'd  have  been  annoyed  if  you'd  done  the  same 
for  me" — to  his  further  wonderment,  she  was  actually  apolo- 
getic; "I  don't' blame  you  for  being  angry.  .  .  ,  They  say 
only  cowards  commit  suicide." 


88  God's  Man 

Once  more  the  laugh  that  submerged  the  velvetiness.  "Nat- 
urally that's  said  by  those  who  don't  know.  Cowards  ? — Night 
after  night  I've  got  out  the  whole  apparatus,  yes,  and  turned 
it  on  and  waited.  And  then  I've  leaped  up  and  turned  it  out. 
Even  with  everything  to  gain  and  nothing  to  lose,  there's  that 
blank  leap.  Now  if  I  only  believed  in  something,  why,  I'd 
take  a  chance  on  Hell  being  better  than  this — for  me  anyway. 
But  that  blank  leap  into — nowhere — ?  ...  I  suppose  a 
person's  got  to  be  sick,  or  in  pain,  or  facing  some  horrible  to- 
morrow. .  .  .  Mine's  just  monotonous  misery,  and,  being 
sane  and  all  that,  I  keep  thinking  that  there's  always  a  chance : 
I've  got  one  chance,  anyhow — that  'one  chance'  is  what  keeps 
our  wretched  noses  to  the  grind,  I  suppose.  Why,  when  I  saw 
you  lying  there,  I  said  to  myself:  'I  guess  he  lost  his  last 
chance/  But  it  was  pain,  wasn't  it  ?" 

Much  of  what  she  said  was  almost  incomprehensible  to  Ar- 
nold. But  she  did  not  seem  to  mind  his  silence.  Her  talk  with 
the  Little  One  had  loosened  the  reserve  of  a  year  without 
confidantes.  And  there  was  much  she  could  tell  a  fellow- 
suicide,  much  she  could  never  have  brought  herself  to  tell  any 
one  else. 

As  she  talked  on,  Arnold  realized  why  she  so  considered 
him — and  shuddered ! 

It  was  a  night  of  storm  and  snow  and  while  he  slept  some 
vagrant  gust  must  have  extinguished  his  flickering  gas.  She 
had  noticed  the  odor,  one  so  overpowering  as  to  diffuse  itself 
widely  .  .  .  and  knowing  gas  to  be  the  favorite  lethal 
weapon  of  the  poor,  had  investigated. 

She  told  him  about  it,  and  of  how  her  scream  had  brought 
Sonetchka's  acquaintance  and  assistance.  .  .  .  "Don't 
pretend  to  thank  me,"  she  said,  contemptuously  interrupting 
some  such  stumbling  attempt. 

"I  shouldn't  thank  you.  But  you  wouldn't  have  the  chance 
with  me.  You  didn't  even  lock  your  door.  Anyhow,  your 
way's  foolish — takes  hours  and  hours.  If  you'd  had  this — " 


Plunder-land  89 

She  reached  under  his  pillow  and  brought  out  a  coil  of  in- 
sulated rubber  piping :  but  where  an  attachment  for  a  movable 
gas-fixture  should  have  been  was  a  nursing  nipple  for  some 
Brobdingnagian  baby. 

"My  idea,  that,"  she  tried  to  say  flippantly.  "Think  I  could 
get  a  patent  on  it?  It  would  make  things  so  much  easier  for 
poor  people,  wouldn't  it  ?  My ! — but  it's  hard  to  grip  that  hose 
with  your  teeth  and  say  'prunes  and  prisms'  with  your  lips, 
at  the  same  time." 

Arnold  shuddered  at  such  sinister  information,  especially 
as  it  was  patently  the  result  of  personal  experience. 

"How  about  advertising  it?"  continued  the  girl  in  the  same 
grimly  satirical  vein:  "Comme  c'est!  Are  you  Hungry? 
111?  Miserable?  Trouble's  But  a  Bubble.  Buy  our  'Beauty.' 
.  .  .  No  Poor  Man  Can  Beat  It!  ...  Don't  you 
love  it?" 

Arnold's  original  idea  of  undeceiving  her,  vanished — 
her  belief  in  his  attempted  suicide  was  his  strongest  hold  on 
her  imagination.  And  heredity  was  too  much  for  him — he 
became  "the"  L'Hommedieu  again.  The  strong  may  be  tem- 
porarily vanquished,  but  let  others  than  himself  need  their 
strength  .  .  .  and  the  world's  knee  was  on  their  necks 
as  so  much  thistle-down  .  .  .  Velvet  Voice's  life  was  too 
precious  to  be  wasted. 

Yet  Arnold  had  seemed  powerless  before  poverty.  Ship- 
ping-clerk for  wholesale  "notions,"  salesman  of  Ninth  Avenue 
shoes,  conductor  for  Brooklyn  commuters,  section  boss,  time- 
keeper for  a  lumber  man,  bookkeeper  for  a  grocer — he  had 
filled  a  mort  of  the  many  badly  paying  places  open  to  the  semi- 
skilled. And  had  filled  them  well.  .  .  .  But  such  as 
would  keep  him  fed  and  half-decently  clad  did  so  at  the  ex- 
pense of  his  soul.  Unfit  for  heavy  unimaginative  labor,  it 
stripped  the  flesh  from  his  bones,  sent  him  home  staggering 
and  into  a  stupor,  not  to  sleep. 

From  this  he  would  awaken  early,  back  aching,  hands  smart- 


90  God's  Man 

ing,  bloodshot  sunken  eyes.  Highly-bred  racehorses  die  when 
put  to  dragging  drays. 

"Theorists  talk  learnedly  of  the  immense  amount  of  pro- 
teids  a  dime  will  buy,  demonstrate  irrefragably  that  ten  dol- 
lars a  week  will  keep  a  man  in  the  pink  of  condition.  Let 
them  try  to  be  clean  and  well-fed — as  well  as  useful — on  that 
sum.  Professor  Blank — who  voiced  the  economic  conclusions 
printed  in  yesterday's  ' Argus' — is  probably  paid  by  pluto- 
cratic endowments  .  .  .  that  the  coming  generation  may 
be  as  ignorantly  merciless  as  is  this  one. 

"The  worst  of  it  all  is  that  it  needn't  be  so:  that  it  does  no 
one  any  good  that  it  should  be  so.  .  .  ." 

"Old  Subscriber"  Arnold  had  sent  this  to  his  former  "shop" 
a  few  days  before.  The  indignation  was  fiercer  now  with 
the  knowledge  of  this  girl's  plight.  .  .  .  Seeing  color 
flooding  his  cheeks,  she  considered  it  safe  to  leave  him. 

"No  talk/'  sfye  said;  "sleep — and  rest — see  you  in  the 
morning." 

Unheeding  his  protests,  she  extinguished  the  gas  and  went 
out,  but  immediately  returned,  fumbling  for  something. 
Thinking  it  her  purse,  Arnold  was  hurt.  But  then  came  the 
noise  of  something  flopping,  and  he  understood  \ 

The  rubber-hose!  Apparently  she  did  not  encourage  its 
use  in  others. 

II.    THE  TBUNK  THAT  WOULD  HOLD  THREE  MEN 

Velvet  Voice  had  reported  for  work  long  before  Arnold 
awoke.  The  Little  One,  having  taken  her  place,  brought  in 
an  affair  of  nickeled  steel,  compact  but  complicated,  poured 
in  alcohol,  .  .  .  managed,  deftly,  mysteriously,  a  break- 
fast of  grilled  bacon,  poached  eggs  and  toast;  coffee  from 
another  engine,  a  pair  of  elliptical  half-globes  that,  when  the 
water  boiled,  reversed  automatically,  fragrant  steam  signaling 
with  their  little  spout. 


Plunderland  91 

"Russian,"  she  said  proudly,  observing  his  interest. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you — "  he  began.     .     .     . 

She  interrupted  with  a  wave  of  a  little  hand — back 
dropped  the  kimono  folds  revealing  a  dimpled  elbow — 
miracle — another  kimono  from  Miss  Cherry-Pink  of  the  pre- 
vious night;  neither  the  sort  of  garment  worn  by  the  poor. 
What  was  she  doing  in  such  a  hotel?  What  .  .  .  who, 
was  she?  "Russian!"  "Sonetchka"  .  .  .  people  called 
her — she  told  him,  while  he  ate. 

"  'Sonetchka/  'e  say" — she  went  rattling  on,  telling  of  some 
rich  man  who  had  loved  her — "  'Sonetchka :  I  loof  you.  I  zink 
you  are  jus'  loofly.  I  worsheep  you,  Sonetchka:'  'So?'  I  say 
(jus'  like  zat) .  'So  ?  Zat  is  'ow  mooch  I  care  whezzer  you  zink 
I  am  loofly.'  .  .  .  'E  was  'ansom  zat  barin,  too.  .  .  . 
Those  ozzer  stupid  little  pig  girls  zink  I  am  crazee.  My 
muzzer  she  beat  me.  But  still  I  say  'Zat  for  your  barin/ 
I  run  away,  zen.  .  .  .  You  look  like  Jim.  'E  was  fine- 
looking  man,  'im." 

"A  baron?"  asked  Arnold. 

"Net — net — not  baron — barin — zat  means  not  mouzik,  not 
peasant,  zhentleman.     .     .     .     But  eat.     Finish. 
How  you  feel  now?" 

"I  think  I'll  get  up,"  said  Arnold.  She  nodded,  pleased. 
"And  I  will  ge-fix  ze  room  for  'er.  She  nice,  hein?"  She 
had  a  way  of  mixing  up  her  languages,  using  scraps  of  any 
that  suited  her  peculiar  pronunciation.  She  came  forward 
and  helped  Arnold  to  rise.  He  was  surprised  at  the  steely 
strength  of  her  diminutive  wrists. 

"I  am  str — r — ong,  me !"  she  affirmed,  flattered  by  his  ex- 
pression. "Zat  come  from  'ard  work  Ven  I  run  away:  w*en 
I  was  so  'igh — jus'  like  zat." 

The  complete  rest  of  the  night,  the  quart  of  warm  oyster- 
milk,  the  plentiful  breakfast,  all  seemed  to  have  exorcised 
Arnold's  demon ;  the  kindness  and  sympathy  of  the  two  girls 
had  exiled  his  hopeless  apathy.  ...  He  meant  to  see  that 


92  God's  Man 

Velvet  Voice  never  carried  out  her  threat.  But,  to  do  that,  he 
must  better  her  condition. 

In  the  old  days,  dressing  before  bathing  would  have  made 
Arnold  uncomfortable  all  day.  Indeed,  it  was  only  recently 
that  this  costly  luxury  (cleanliness  is  a  luxury,  professors' 
pratings  or  no),  had  ceased  to  consume  a  large  percentage  of 
his  pay.  Gradually,  as  ill-health  and  enforced  holidays  sep- 
arated him  from  clean  tubs  and  perpetual  hot  water,  acquaint- 
ing him  with  cloudy  zinc  and  colonies  of  rectilinear  khaki- 
coats  resident  therein,  Arnold  learned  to  sponge  instead  of 
bathe.  This  morning,  he  went  to  work  at  it,  weak  though  he 
was,  as  though  to  make  up  for  previous  derelictions  .  .  . 
attired  himself  carefully,  brushing  his  one  decent  suit,  hitherto 
used  only  when  applying  for  positions.  It  was  Avenue  tailor- 
ing and  had  not  lost  its  distinction  of  cut.  Long  since  he  had 
come  to  the  wearing  of  the  usual  collars;  but  several  of  his 
unusual  neckties  still  showed  smart  and  costly  above  the  waist- 
coat. His  hat,  soft  brown  camel's  hair,  was  indestructible. 

He  was  welcomed  with  surprise  and  approval  by  Sonetchka. 
She,  with  Turkish  toweling  and  photogravures  cut  from  cur- 
rent magazines,  had  transformed  Velvet  Voice's  dingy  room 
into  one  with  some  pretensions  as  a  human  habitation,  while 
the  gas-light  was  mellowed  by  a  shade  contrived  from  tissue- 
paper  and  cardboard.  .  .  .  She  was  still  busy,  stitching 
away  at  more  toweling  which  was  to  hide  the  dubious  bed- 
spread. 

Arnold's  admiration  for  the  metamorphosed  room  equaled 
Sonia's  for  his  changed  appearance.  Neither  expressed  ad- 
miration orally,  however — for  a  third  person  was  suddenly 
added  to  their  company :  a  boy  who  stared  vacantly  from  the 
wide-flung  door. 

He  was  neatly,  though  cheaply,  dressed:  black  suit,  black 
tie,  black  shoes;  but — also — a  round  straw  hat,  telescope  va- 
riety, and  outside,  snow.  Not  because  of  poverty:  the  hat 
was  new,  not  a  last  summer's  hat  that  had  weathered 
the  seasons,  since.  Nor  did  its  wearer  have  the  abashed  air 


Plunder-land  93 

of  one  conscious  of  oddity  of  apparel,  but  lounged  in  the 
doorway  searching  the  room  as  if  for  some  familiar  face.  He 
gave  no  sign  of  having  seen  either  of  its  present  occupants. 

'Ton  want  to  see  somebody?"  Arnold  asked  him. 

He  turned  and  viewed  Arnold,  letting  his  gaze  travel  over 
the  expensive  tie,  the  snug  coat  shoulders,  the  hair  smooth 
and  glossy  from  much  hard  brushing;  and,  as  he  looked, 
scowled  fiercely:  the  scowl  repeated  after  a  careful  scrutiny 
of  Sonetchka. 

"I  want  Annie  Eunice/'  he  said.  "I'll  fix  her.  Locked  me 
up,  she  did.  And  it  was  all  nice  and  greasy.  Oil  everywhere. 
And  oats.  Especially  oats.  I  hate  oats." 

He  spoke  rapidly  and  passionately,  coming  forward  with 
hands  clenched.  As  he  came,  Sonetchka  arose  in  alarm  and 
the  newcomer,  observing  the  trunk  on  which  she  had  been 
seated,  lost  all  evidences  of  anger  and  chuckled  hugely. 

'Trunk,"  he  said.  "Trunk.  Tee-hee,"  and  he  *  giggled: 
then  he  drew  his  arm  through  Arnold's  and  addressed  him 
confidentially :  "I've  got  a  trunk.  Hold  three  men.  Paid  three 
hundred  dollars  for  it.  Got  a  little  bunk  in  it  and  every- 
thing. Going  to  sail  to  England  in  it,  get  away  from  this 
goddam  country.  It's  fast,  too.  I'll  show  that  son-of-a-gun 
Lipton.  I'm  an  American,  I  am.  Thousands  for  defense 
but  not  one  cent  for  tribute."  He  laughed  in  an  unmistakably 
silly  way,  adding : 

"Damn  America.  What's  it  ever  done  for  me?  Shut  me 
up  with  oil  everywhere.  And  knowing  how  I  hate  oats !  I'll 
show  'em.  Got  a  cigarette  ?" 

Although  the  question  was  addressed  to  Arnold,  Sonetchka, 
who  had  now  a  look  of  horrified  understanding,  extended  a 
box  of  thin  Eussian  ones.  The  man  with  the  straw  hat  took 
one,  thoughtfully,  scrutinizing  it  with  the  utmost  care. 

"Have  to  be  careful,"  he  said.  "They  try  every  way  to  poi- 
son me.  But  I'll  fool  'em.  Tee-hee,"  he  giggled.  "I'll  fool 
'em.  I've  got  a  lot  of  poison  myself.  Paid  three  hundred 
dollars  for  it.  Going  to  drop  it  in  the  reservoir.  And  all 


94  God's  Man 

the  birds  were  singing  in  my  old  New  Hampshire  home.  Thou- 
sands for  defense  but  not  a  cent  for  tribute." 

He  resumed  his  thoughtful  mien  and,  patting  the  trunk  with 
an  air  of  intelligence  bestowing  patronage  upon  worth,  he 
seated  himself  on  it. 

"I'll  put  a  mast  right  here,"  he  said,  inspecting  it.  "With 
sails.  Then  lie  down  and  smoke  cigarettes  all  the  way  over. 
Three  hundred  dollars'  worth  I've  got  in  that  trunk.  Yes, 
sir,  bought  'em  in  London  yesterday." 

He  produced  a  thick  roll  of  bills:  looked  then  at  the  two 
strangers  and  giggled,  and  with  a  sharp  glance  of  mistrust, 
replaced  them  in  his  pocket. 

"You  jus'  give  zat  to  me — zat  money — now! — right  now," 
said  Sonetchka,  meeting  his  eye.  She  thrust  out  her  hand. 
"Put  it  zere.  Eight  zere."  His  eyes  fell  before  her  steady 
gaze.  She  repeated  her  command,  stepping  nearer  as  she 
spoke. 

"It's  mine,"  he  whimpered.  "They  gave  it  to  me  for  writ- 
ing my  name.  Write  your  name  and  we'll  give  you  three 
hundred  dollars."  He  pointed  to  Arnold.  "He  said  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Arnold,  realizing  that  some  good  reason  lay 
back  of  Sonetchka's  treatment  of  this  unfortunate.  "But  I 
said  you  were  to  bring  it  here  and  give  it  to  this  lady, 
didn't  I?" 

"Thousands  for  defense  but  not  a  cent  for  tribute,"  said  the 
boy,  slowly  drawing  out  the  money  and  reluctantly  surren- 
dering it.  Sonetchka  returned  him  a  single  bill. 

"Zere's  one  t'ousand  dollar  becauze  you  obey,"  she  said,  ten- 
dering the  "ace"  with  a  gracious  air.  "You  ze  eet  is  good 
to  obey.  Eh?" 

"I  can  buy  a  new  trunk  with  a  thousand,"  he  said  greedily. 
"Hold  ten  men.  Go  a  thousand  miles  a  day.  You  can  have 
this.  You  sail  to  England  in  it.  It's  a  good  trunk.  Go 
quick  and  beat  that  old  son-of-a-gun  Lipton.  I'm  going  to 
race  Barney  Oldfield  in  my  new  one."  He  crossed  to  the  door. 


Plunder-land  95 

"So  long,"  he  said :  "I've  got  to  hurry  or  I  won't  catch  him. 
He's  got  a  thousand  miles  start  of  me." 

"Wait,"  she  ordered :  "I  go  weez  you.  You  wait.  I  dress." 
She  motioned  Arnold  out  as  the  man  in  the  straw  hat  re- 
turned. 

"Why  does  he  have  to  go?"  asked  the  latter  suspiciously. 
"Maybe  he'll  phone  Oldfield  and  he'll  get  an  aeroplane  and 
beat  me" 

"Zen  we  will,  too,"  she  returned  soothingly.  "A  beeg 
hairoplane — begger  zan  zis  'ole  'otel — "  At  which  he  giggled 
again  and,  taking  a  second  cigarette,  seated  himself,  thought- 
ful of  his  coming  victory,  on  his  discarded  International  Cup 
racer. 

Before  Arnold  could  ask  a  question  Sonetchka  had  begun  to 
explain.  "  'E's  ?er  brozzer,"  she  said. 

"What?"  asked  Arnold,  not  recognizing  this  queer  jumble 
of  lacking  aspirates  and  reinforced  sibilants. 

"  'Er  brozzer,"  replied  the  Little  One,  dabbing  at  her  eyes. 

"Brother?"  gasped  Arnold.  "Hers?"  Sonetchka  nodded 
and  opened  the  door  to  her  own  room. 

Here  all  evidences  of  a  cheap  hotel  disappeared.  Arnold 
saw  silver  candelabra  with  embroidered  shades,  mantel  orna- 
ments in  bronze  and  marble,  an  oblong  leather  cigarette-box, 
nail-studded  .  .  .  articles  of  hammered  brass.  Beyond 
was  a  bed  canopied  and  hung  with  rose-colored  draperies.  The 
rooms  were  enormous — sitting-room  and  bedroom:  once  part 
of  the  Presidential  suite,  afterward  familiar  to  the  fashionable 
overflow  from  the  Brevoort  House,  a  few  blocks  to  the  west — 
but  farther  than  Africa  now. 

A  small  white  dog  leaped  up,  barking  sleepily  at  the  stran- 
ger. 

"My  baby-dog,"  cried  Sonetchka  passionately,  and  hugged 
it  tight.  "Wazzums? — well — w'at  a  baby."  Thus  intermit- 
tently addressing  it — "dolly-dog"  and  "angel-child" — she  ex- 
plained the  case  of  Velvet  Voice  to  the  doubly  amazed  Arnold. 


96  God's  Man 

III.  WHY  HANS  CHASSERTON  WORE  A  STEAW  HAT  IN 
JANUARY 

Half  an  hour  later,  at  his  offices  in  lower  Broadway,  "Our 
Mr.  Krafft,"  of  Cleyne,  Thurndyke,  Martinseft  and  Krafft, 
glanced  at  the  written  slip  a  volcanic  Arnold  had  sent  in  and, 
having  little  conception  of  the  relations  existing  between  the 
orthography  and  phonetics  of  any  name  that  appeared  "for- 
eign," he  coughed  discreetly,  as  who  should  say  the  poor  fel- 
low was  responsible  for  having  an  outlandish  French  name, 
of  being  other  than  an  "Amurrican"  citizen.  If  Mr.  Krafft 
had  been  born  with  any  such  family  name,  he  would  have 
been  known  as  Lommeydoo. 

"I  came  to  talk  to  you  about  a  boy  named  Hans  Chasser- 
ton,"  said  Arnold,  and  grimly  watched  the  smile  fade  from 
the  Krafftian  face.  So  large  were  the  offices  of  the  firm,  so 
many  the  employees,  so  numerous  the  partners,  Arnold  had 
hardly  dare  hope  to  meet  immediately  the  one  whom,  with 
all  his  being,  he  yearned  to  do  an  injury.  Yet  Mr.  Krafft's 
neat  little  face,  pale  with  guilty  knowledge — for  Arnold  had 
the  psychic  quality  of  impressing,  for  the  moment  at  least,  his 
own  moral  standards  on  others — his  neat  little  hands  nerv- 
ously toying  with  his  neat  little  bow-tie:  these  things  con- 
vinced Arnold  that  this  was  the  very  gentleman  that  So- 
netchka's  story  had  sent  him,  headlong,  in  boiling  rage,  to  find. 

"I  do  not  care  to  discuss  the  matter,"  said  Mr.  Krafft,  his 
eyes  turning  longingly  toward  his  ivory  push-button,  between 
which  and  Mr.  Krafft  stood  the  young  man,  whose  eyes  gave 
Mr.  Krafft  plainly  to  understand  he  was  in  for  some  ugly 
moments. 

"After  all,"  said  Arnold  unpleasantly,  "it's  no  great  won- 
der I  should  have  met  the  very  man  I  wished  to  see.  Your 
name  is  lowest  down  on  the  sign.  Doubtless  your  nature  is 
like  your  name.  And  so  you  are  given  the  low-down  work 
to  do;  unknowns  like  myself  and  young  Chasserton  help  you 
keep  your  place,"  he  added  in  a  rising  tone,  as  the  lawyer 


Plunder-land  97 

seemed  about  to  saunter  easily  toward  his  desk.  Mr.  Krafft 
had  taken  that  position  by  the  window  to  be  engaged  in  star- 
ing forth  abstractedly  when  his  unknown  client  entered;  it 
was  impressive  not  to  be  aware  at  first  of  the  presence  of  un- 
known clients.  Now  he  wished  he  had  been  content  merely 
to  sit  at  his  desk  and  rustle  papers. 

"Two  orphans,  Hans  Anderson  Chasserton  and  Annie 
Eunice  Chasserton.  Point  Number  one ;  orphans,  Mr.  Krafft, 
Annie  Eunice  fourteen,  Hans  twelve.  She  didn't  send  him 
out  as  bundle-boy  or  cash-boy.  He  had  been  going  to  the 
Polytechnic  when  her  father  died,  and  she  used  the  insurance 
money  to  keep  him  there — while  she  worked.  In  factories 
till  her  eyes  went  back  on  her,  in  stores  until  the  doctor  told 
her  to  look  out  for  varicose  veins,  standing  on  her  feet  all 
day.  Then  back  to  the  factories  again,  and  so  on.  It  went 
on  that  way  until  the  boy  graduated  from  the  Polytechnic  and 
spent  a  year  in  the  Nonpareil  Motor-Car  shops.  Then  they 
gave  him  a  job  demonstrating — " 

"Mr.  Lommeydoo,"  said  Mr.  Krafft,  edging  toward  his 
push-button,  "you  are  either  the  biggest  lunatic  in  New  York 
or  the — "  under  Arnold's  eyes  he  failed  to  recall  a  second 
superlative.  Some  eyes  can  be  very  ugly  when  they  choose. 

"I  shouldn't  speak  of  lunatics  if  I  were  you,"  said  Arnold 
softly.  "And  keep  your  place."  Entirely  voluntarily  this 
time  Mr.  Krafft  stepped  farther  away  from  the  push-button. 

"Where  was  I?"  Arnold  asked;  "oh,  yes!  young  Hans  got 
a  fifteen-a-week  job  demonstrating  new  cars.  Five  and  ten- 
dollar  tips  when  he  showed  some  purchasers  how  to  run  'em. 
.  .  .  Then  he  and  his  sister  made  a  deal  for  a  little  house 
— one  of  those  model  cottages.  Paid  so  much  a  month — 
'why  pay  rent?'  you  know.  Ten  miles  out  in  the  country. 
She  kept  house.  No  more  stores  or  sweatshops — home.  Then 
enter  Apple-Booster,  enter  Snake,  enter  Eat — your  client,  Mr. 
Krafft." 

Arnold  was  no  longer  red-hot:  he  was  white-hot.  "Eve 
thought  pretty  well  of  the  serpent,  too,  history  tells  us.  Well, 


98  God's  Man 

when  your  client  bought  that  Nonpareil  six-cylinder-sixty — 
made  especially  for  him,  wasn't  it? — and  Hans  was  to  show 
him  how  to  run  it,  and  got  a  week's  vacation  for  it,  Eve's  ser- 
pent was  nowhere;  even  that  last  day  when  he  was  running 
it  himself,  and  she,  his  sister,  had  heard  Hans  beg  him  not 
to  drive  too  fast.  'At  eighty  miles  an  hour  any  little  acci- 
dent's fatal,'  Hans  said.  But  when  they  started  off  down 
the  Motor  Parkway,  I  guess  your  client  told  Hans  to  shut  up. 
Then  the  puncture.  Even  then  she  was  grateful  because  he 
had  had  Hans  taken  to  a  private  hospital — she  didn't  know  it 
had  to  be  private: — and  promised  if  he  was  permanently  dis- 
abled he'd  have  a  life  pension.  Then  he  goes  off  to  the 
other  side  and  leaves  it  all  to  you,  I  guess,  and  she  had  to  let 
the  model  cottage  go.  Couldn't  keep  up  the  payments  and 
all  their  savings  had  gone  into  the  first  instalments.  Nearly 
a  thousand  dollars.  Back  to  the  stores  and  sweatshops  for 
her.  But  she  kidded  herself  along:  it  was  only  till  Hans 
came  out.  Then  he  could  get  his  old  job  back,  or — keep  your 
place,  Mr.  Krafft,  don't  let  me  have  to  tell  you  again — if  he 
was  disabled,  there  was  that  pension.  She  gave  your  client 
credit  for  not  knowing  she  had  lost  the  house  and  was  back 
sweating:  that  she  didn't  even  have  enough  spare  cash  for  a 
trip  up  to  that  White  Mountains  sanitarium.  But  with  your 
client  so  kind  about  the  private  hospital  and  the  sanitarium, 
she  felt  sure  it  was  all  right." 

He  paused,  surveying  Mr.  Krafft  malignantly.  "Anyhow, 
his  lawyer  told  her  right  along,  up  to  a  few  weeks  ago,  every- 
thing would  be  arranged.  And  that's  just  the  joke.  Every- 
thing was.  What  makes  the  joke  twice  as  funny  is  that  her 
eyes  have  gone  back  on  her  again ;  and  she  can't  stick  in  the 
shop.  So  what  would  be  more  shriekingly  farcical  than  her 
meeting  this  brother  who  is  going  to  save  her,  wearing  a  straw 
hat  in  the  winter  and  talking  about  sailing  across  the  ocean  in 
a  trunk  that  holds  three  men." 

Mr.  Krafft's  collar  seemed  to  be  choking  him :  a  prophetic 
collar,  this.  He  avoided  Arnold's  eyes,  but  the  avatar  of  the 


Plunderland  99 

fighting  L'Hommedieus  had  pocketed  his  Bible  to  have  both 
hands  free  for  battle.  "Well/'  he  asked  in  the  ugly  fighting 
voice  of  his  breed;  "Well?"  He  thrust  forward  a  hand  palm 
outward,  forcing  up  Mr.  Krafft's  neat  little  dimpled  chin,  so 
that  the  neat  little  eyes  were  forced  to  meet  his.  "Well  ?" 

"The  matter  has  been  arranged/'  said  Mr.  Krafft  miserably, 
sure  this  answer,  although  legally  flawless,  would  not  be  ac- 
ceptable to  a  high-handed  bloody-minded  young  pirate.  Van- 
ished all  his  eager  little  pride  at  having  compassed  a  neat  bit 
of  chicanery  for  which  his  senior  partners  had  praised  him 
without  stint,  for  which  a  large  fee  was  forthcoming.  So 
strong  was  Arnold's  domination  that  Mr.  Krafft  saw  his  neat 
little  legal  trick  for  the  cheap  cowardly  business  it  was. 

"The  matter  has  been  arranged?"  asked  Arnold,  speaking 
lower  as  his  fear  of  himself  grew.  "You  send  the  boy  off 
where  his  sister  can't  see  him,  she  might  get  suspicious  and 
consult  a  lawyer.  Send  him  to  some  out-of-the-way  place 
where  they  perform  illegal  operations,  I  suppose;  where 
women  go  when  they  are  supposed  to  be  in  Europe — nobody 
but  doctors  that  ought  to  be  disqualified  would  stand  by  this 
damnable  fraud.  Is  that  what  you  would  call  arranging  ?" 

His  talent  for  analysis  had  supplied  the  missing  and  ne- 
farious details.  It  had  not  been  difficult  after  hearing  So- 
netchka  repeat  Annie  Eunice's  confidences  of  the  night  be- 
fore: although  they  might  have  seemed  hazy  to  an  average 
auditor.  Arnold  thought  at  that  time,  before  he  learned  who 
the  man  was  whose  carelessness  had  been  responsible  for  Hans' 
condition,  that  this  man  would  have  been  willing  to  do  the 
decent  thing  had  not  these  lawyers,  greedy  for  fees,  advised 
otherwise.  After  hearing  Sonetchka's  story,  Arnold  had  real- 
ized the  significance  of  that  three  hundred  dollars  that  had 
somehow  stuck  in  the  boy's  witless  brain.  No  doubt  they  had 
his  signature  to  a  quitclaim — an  absolute  release.  In  his 
present  condition,  three  hundred  dollars  was  a  gigantic  for- 
tune. But,  for  the  release  to  be  binding,  the  medicos  at  the 
sanitarium  must  be  ready,  if  called  on,  to  testify  to  the  abso- 


100  God's  Man' 

lute  sanity  of  Hans  when  he  signed  it — otherwise  all  this 
trickery  was  for  nothing.  Arnold  realized  that  Krafft  had  not 
omitted  to  secure  himself  on  this  point:  therefore,  his  shot 
as  to  the  character  of  the  place,  had  been  only  the  result  of 
logic.  Its  accuracy  was  evidenced  by  Mr.  Krafft's  astonished 
start.  Had  Chasserton's  sister  suspected;  had  some  one  in- 
vestigated ?  Arnold  followed  up  his  logic. 

"How  long  has  he  been  out  of  the  place  ?  A  month  ?  Two 
months?  Or  did  you  date  the  quitclaim  a  month  ahead 
and  take  a  notary  in  with  you.  If  you  didn't  you  never  al- 
lowed that  boy  to  come  to  her  directly  he  left  there.  She 
could  take  him  to  any  physician  and  have  him  declared  insane. 
And,  then,  it  wouldn't  make  any  difference  how  your  shady 
sanitarium  doctors  testified.  But,  of  course,  if  he  signed  that 
quitclaim  a  month  ago,  he  could  have  had  another  accident 
for  which  your  client  wasn't  responsible.  Or,  after  he  left 
your  place,  perfectly  0.  K.,  some  low-minded  lawyer  like  your- 
self might  put  him  up  to  pretend  to  be  insane :  to  blackmail 
your  client — " 

"Exactly,"  said  Mr.  Krafft ;  but  he  put  a  high-backed  chair 
between  him  and  Arnold  before  he  said  it.  "Exactly.  He  was 
quite  sane  when  he  left  Doctor  Brydges'  admirable  institu- 
tion: too  well  established  for  your  libels  to  affect  it.  Doctor 
Brydges  has  the  testimonials  of  many  prominent  people." 

Arnold  gripped  the  back  of  Krafft's  protecting  chair.  "So 
I'm  a  blackmailer,  am  I?  And  the  boy's  insanity  assumed? 
I  just  wanted  to  get  your  line  of  defense,  you  little  rat — " 

With  a  sudden  kick,  he  cleared  the  chair  from  his  path ;  and, 
springing  at  Krafft,  locked  both  hands  around  that  gentleman's 
neat  little  neck.  But  for  the  gurgling  of  the  man  held  at 
arm's  length,  only  the  roar  of  Wall  Street — jackals  consuming 
dead  lions  and  lambs,  bulls  and  bears  planning  other  killings, 
hyenas  astir  in  anticipation;  the  customary  noises  of  Man- 
hattan's Monte  Carlo — was  to  be  heard  in  the  room.  For  the 
moment  his  old  strength  seemed  to  return  to  Arnold.  His 
muscles  had  not  gone  soft  in  his  illness;  only  the  energy  to 


Plunderland  101 

use  them  had  been  at  low  ebb.  Now,  the  motor  of  his  will  at 
high  tension  again,  he  was  happily  confident  of  his  power: 
the  great  human  machine  was  as  competent  as  ever.  He 
laughed  gladly,  fiercely,  as  he  flung  Mr.  Krafft  into  a  chair. 

"Well,  put  it  that  way — blackmail,"  he  said,  then  waited 
until  Krafft  should  finish  choking,  spluttering,  spitting.  "The 
law's  on  your  side — keep  it.  With  no  money  and  no  pull, 
what's  the  use  of  the  law  to  anybody.  Anyhow,  you've  got  a 
good  legal  case.  That  blackmail  idea  was  immense,  for  both 
of  us."  He  waited  again,  smiling  grimly  at  the  fancy  that  had 
seized  him.  When  he  went  on  analyzing  in  his  usual  fashion 
it  was  only  to  convince  himself,  to  watch  Krafft's  face  to  test 
the  accuracy  of  his  analyses.  "They  had  to  pass  a  law  in 
France  that  people  who  got  run  over  should  go  to  jail.  That's 
the  only  way  they  could  keep  the  hospitals  from  being  over- 
crowded. So  many  people  threw  themselves  under  motor- 
cars. Great  for  damages;  and  what  was  a  broken  leg  or 
amputated  arm  if  they  could  quit  work  for  the  rest  of  their 
lives  ?  So  when  they  weren't  lucky  enough  to  lose  their  limbs 
or  something,  their  lawyers — your  kind — hit  on  that  insanity 
dodge;  got  doctors  to  teach  'em  how  people  act  who  go  crazy 
from  blows  on  the  head — " 

He  looked  up.  "I'm  boring  you.  You're  well  aware  of  all 
that;  I  can  see  you  in  court  now,  you  and  your  associates, 
quoting  all  the  authorities  for  it,  all  the  precedents.  You'll 
wait  of  course  until  you  get  the  right  Judge.  Then  you'll 
call  on  him  to  help  you  put  a  stop  to  this  criminal  perjury. 
'That  man  is  no  more  insane  than  I  am,'  you'll  shout  to  the 
jury.  And  the  poor  little  sheep  on  the  jury  'ull  look  at  Hans 
Chasserton  as  if  he  were  Black  Bart  or  Jesse  James;  and  if 
they  have  automobiles  themselves  they'll  think  their  chauffeur 
might  get  hurt  and  try  the  same  trick  some  day,  and  most 
of  the  others  'ull  think  of  that  girl  their  wives  don't  know 
about.  She  might  try  this  blackmail  trick  if  they  get  tired 
of  her  and  quit.  You  know  you  can  always  get  a  favorable 
verdict  when  you  shout  'Blackmail/  Almost  everybody's  got 


102  God's  Man 

something  to  conceal  and  everybody's  afraid  some  day  they'll 
have  to  pay  somebody  to  keep  it  quiet.  Blackmail ! — that  was 
an  inspiration.  I'm  much  obliged." 

Arnold's  voice  had  increased  in  bitterness;  the  corners  of 
his  mouth  were  turned  down.  "Call  up  your  bank,"  he  added 
suddenly.  "Have  'em  send  a  messenger  with  five  thousand 
in  small  bills — tens,  twenties,  fifties,  no  larger.  And  have 
him  hurry — your  bank's  near  here  I  suppose."  As  Krafft 
gave  him  no  answer,  he  went  on.  "Tell  your  telephone  girl 
to  send  him  right  in  when  he  comes." 

"Are  you  crazy  ?"  Krafft  almost  shouted. 

"Keep  quiet,"  said  Arnold  fiercely;  "shout  like  that  again 
and  I'll  choke  the  life  out  of  you.  You  do  what  I  say." 

"I  can't  sign  the  firm's  name  alone — another  member  has 
to  sign  too,"  whined  Krafft  eagerly,  too  eagerly.  Arnold 
pulled  out  from  under  some  volumes  in  yellow  calf,  a  large 
square  cheque-book.  Flipping  it  open  he  viewed  the  signature 
of  the  firm  stamped  on  each  cheque,  the  line  below  preceded 
by  the  word  "per"  and  sufficiently  wide  for  but  one  other 
name.  Arnold,  his  thumb  pressed  against  one  of  these  forms, 
delivered  the  book  to  its  owner. 

"Liar,"  he  said  briefly.  "Now  do  what  I  told  you.  Here's 
the  telephone."  He  lifted  and  handed  it,  the  long  cord  reach- 
ing to  the  window.  He  was  aware  of  the  ivory  push-button. 

For  a  moment,  Mr.  Krafft  held  the  heavy  instrument  as  a 
child  holds  a  strange  toy.  When  he  had  seemed  to  solve  the 
reason  for  its  existence,  his  bearing  was  too  cowed  and  abject 
to  arouse  suspicion  in  Arnold,  who  was  never  to  be  accused  of 
holding  too  high  an  opinion  of  the  average  human's  intelli- 
gence. But,  having  little  conception  of  the  deification  of  mere 
money,  he  was  yet  to  learn  that  the  stupidest  of  men  may  suc- 
ceed in  collecting  vast  quantities  of  wealth,  just  as  the  early 
Christian  martyrs  gladly  suffered  death  in  the  arena;  wealth- 
worship  being  the  only  live  religion  to-day  because  it  is  the  only 
one  people  are  willing  to  die  for.  Mr.  Krafft's  religion  threat- 
ened, every  ounce  of  him  responded  to  a  stirring  call  to  arms : 


Plunder-land  103 

nis  brain  became  a  dynamo  fed  by  the  force  of  thousands  of 
fiercely  throbbing  nerve  ganglions;  and  a  thought-process 
that,  as  he  was  possessed  of  limited  mental  endowments,  would 
have  consumed  an  ordinary  hour,  eventuated  in  the  one  silent 
moment  before  he  asked  for  a  telephone  number. 

"Five-two-seven-eight? — is  that  you  Mr.  Terence — this 
is  Mr.  Krafft  of  Cleyne,  Thurndyke,  Martinseft  and  Krafft 
— tell  the  cashier  to  send  over  five  thousand  dollars  in  small 
bills — tens,  twenties  and  fifties — nothing  larger — a  client 
here  wants  them.  If  you  haven't  them,  get  them  somewhere 
else  and  bring  them  over  here  yourself — I  must  have  them  im- 
mediately. Very  important.  Don't  trust  a  messenger.  It's 
too  easy  to  run  off  with  such  money.  It  can't  be  identified, 
you  see.  Hurry.  Good-by."  He  slammed  down  the  receiver 
before  Mr.  Terence  had  an  opportunity  of  replying  with  a 
single  word:  Mr.  Krafft  had  spoken  with  too  feverish  a  ra- 
pidity. 

"I'm  sure  there  isn't  five  thousand  there/'  he  whined  again, 
reverting  to  his  former  manner  as  he  accepted  the  pen  Arnold 
had  inked  and  handed  him.  Eesting  a  corner  of  his  cheque- 
book on  the  window-sill  he  wrote  a  date  in  neat  Spencerian, 
filled  another  blank  to  "Cash" ;  paused  at  the  third.  But  let 
there  be  no  further  secret  made  of  it :  the  controversy  that  fol- 
lowed was  but  the  result  of  a  cunning  plan  to  keep  the  mind 
of  the  bloody-minded  young  pirate  so  occupied  that  he  might 
not  cogitate  on  the  double  meaning  of  the  neat  little  telephone 
message ;  even  though,  to  the  man  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire, 
no  bank-clerk  as  you  rightly  suspect — it  had  been  vague  to 
the  point  of  misunderstanding:  Mr.  Terence,  Agency  De- 
tective, had,  in  fact,  been  divided  when  he  received  it  between 
suspicions  of  drunkenness  and  dementia. 

"Hadn't  I  best  leave  the  amount  blank  in  case  he  doesn't 
bring  quite  five  thousand?  All  our  cheques  are  in  sequence. 
If  we  destroy  one,  it  makes  trouble  in  our  bookkeeping.  You 
understand — "  Mr.  Krafft  was  surpassing  himself  as  a 
creature  of  intellect. 


104  God's  Man 

The  telephone  bell  rang.  Arnold  came  closer  and  faced 
him  across  the  top  of  the  instrument.  "No,  I  can't  see  any- 
body just  now/'  Mr.  Krafft  answered  his  telephone  girl.  "Ex- 
cept one  person.  Send  him  right  in.  Mr.  Terence  from  the 
Bank." 

Again  he  cut  off  an  earnest  effort  to  promote  absolute  un- 
derstanding. "Mr.  Terence  from  the  Bank"  the  girl  two 
rooms  away  asked  to  the  empty  air ;  but  her  question  was  soon 
answered  in  the  person  of  Mr.  Terence  himself.  Followed  by 
two  others  as  rosy-gilled  as  himself,  he  leaped  from  an  express- 
elevator  into  the  reception-room.  "Oh,  you,"  said  she  of  the 
switchboard. 

"Krafft's  in  his  reg'lar  office,  miss?"  asked  the  rosy-gilled 
one  addressed,  breathing  heavily. 

"And  he  said — "  she  began ;  but  again  she  finished  to  empti- 
ness. The  three  were  racing  along  the  private  hall.  In  his 
room,  Mr.  Krafft,  having  filled  in  the  third  blank  with  the 
amount  demanded,  was  whining  out  a  request  for  a  receipt  to 
show  his  client.  "Otherwise  it's  a  dead  loss,"  said  the  neat 
little  man  humbly. 

But  in  a  space  of  time  too  brief  to  have  a  designation  in 
our  chronological  measurements  he  was  neither  neat  nor  hum- 
ble, nor  yet  little.  He  had  climbed  on  a  chair  when  Terence 
and  Company  burst  down  the  unlocked  door — the  method  of 
turning  the  knob  being  too  simple  for  the  mental  processes 
of  police  detectives — and,  as  they  threw  themselves  upon  the 
bloody-minded  pirate,  Mr.  Krafft  disheveled  his  scanty  top- 
knot by  scratching  gleefully,  as  a  dog  flea-questing  vengef ully. 

Followed  overturning  of  furniture,  smashing  of  inkwells 
and  paste-pots.  The  head  of  one  of  the  rosy-gills  struck  a 
brass-bound  table  corner  as  he  staggered  back  from  the  first 
blow  of  the  fighting  L'Hommedieu ;  who,  himself,  went 
through  the  lower  pane  of  a  window — one  of  those  with  but 
two  panes,  an  upper  and  a  lower ;  so  that,  as  the  glass  crashed 
down  to  the  pavement,  half  his  body  hung  in  space.  But  it 
was  not  as  an  applicant  for  one  of  Mr.  Carnegie's  life-saving 


Plunder-land  105 

medals  that  Mr.  Terence  tackled  his  legs,  bringing  him  back 
to  more  solid  support,  but  for  the  pleasure  of  driving  him  into 
some  book-cases  and  adding  several  pounds  of  shattered  glass 
to  the  general  debris.  Nor  did  Arnold  misinterpret  his  mo- 
tives but  swung  lustily  and  flattened  out  half  of  Mr.  Terence 
on  an  oak  center  table,  where  he  lay  like  an  unruly  corpse  in 
a  dissecting  room.  Then  Arnold  became  the  gyrating  center 
of  a  Catherine  wheel  of  arms  and  legs,  all  three  rosy-gills  fas- 
tening on  him  like  beagles  on  a  cornered  fox,  all  three  crash- 
ing down,  wildly  struggling. 

Mr.  Terence  was  the  first  to  disengage  himself  from  this 
dusty  and  irregular  pyramid ;  and,  swearing  wildly,  he  kicked 
Arnold's  head  viciously  but  accurately.  As  pain  faded  into 
unconsciousness,  Arnold  could  hear  the  once  neat  little  man 
chanting  on  his  own  cunning. 

"You  can  let  him  be  a  minute,  now,"  said  Mr.  Terence,  his 
gills  rosier  than  ever ;  and,  pantingly  introduced  the  others  to 
Krafft:  "Lieutenant  Wiley,  Sergeant  Kirstenbaum,  Central 
Office — just  happened  to  be  in  the  office  when  you  phoned." 

They  always  "just  happened"  there.  Although  "front-office 
dicks,"  less  prosperous  souls  circulated  envious  rumors  that 
they  used  official  time  and  civic  expense  accounts  to  add  to 
the  exchequer  of  that  firm;  also  recommended  it  on  all  pos- 
sible occasions  to  distressed  citizens,  accrediting  to  it  attributes 
of  persistent  and  successful  sleuthing  not  to  be  found  in  those 
on  the  pay-rolls  of  the  municipality. 

But  now  was  the  time  for  despised  municipal  powers  to  be 
asserted  and  the  puffing  Lieutenant  asked  what  was  the 
charge?  The  topknot  smoothed  out,  the  chant  of  cave-man 
cunning  ceased,  and  Mr.  Krafft,  a  neat  little  lawyer  once  more, 
considered.  Best  not  refer  to  the  Chasserton  case  lest  a  note 
of  sympathy  be  struck  in  the  public  press  before  the  charge  of 
blackmail  made  that  impossible.  "Assault  with  intent  to  kill," 
he  finally  evolved.  "The  ruffian  threatened  if  I  didn't  get  him 
five  thousand  .  .  ."  Enraged  at  the  thought  of  his  humilia- 
tion, Mr.  Krafft  gave  the  senseless  body  a  second  kick,  then 


106  God's  Man 

hurried  the  actual  story  to  give  his  cunning  stratagem  in  de- 
tail. "Neat  dodge,  telephoning  you,  Bank,  eh  ?  And  the  way 
I  put  it.  Ha !  Ha !  I  knew  if  you  didn't  quite  understand, 
you'd  investigate.  Unidentified  bills.  Client.  Ha!  Ha!" 

"7  tipped  him,"  said  Kirstenbaum  sullenly.  He  had  come 
into  forcible  contact  with  the  brass-bound  corner,  and  was 
feeling  a  lump  the  size  of  an  apple ;  "They  thought  you  was 
drunk  or  crazy." 

"Then  it's  assault  with  intent  to  kill,  intimidation,  and  at- 
tempted grand  larceny,  eh?"  said  Terence  hurriedly.  "He 
ought  to  get  life  for  that — a  fifteen-years'  stretch  anyhow. 
Well,  let's  get  him  up  out  of  that,  or  some  silk-stocking  re- 
former 'ull  be  writing  letters  to  the  Mayor  about  police  bru- 
tality." 

Behind  a  screen  was  a  stationary  wash-hand  basin  where 
he  drew  water,  emptying  it  on  Arnold,  to  the  intense  amuse- 
ment of  clerks  and  office-boys;  even  of  the  other  members 
of  the  firm,  all  of  whom  were  crowded  together  at  the  door 
while  Krafft  explained  excitedly.  Three  dousings,  one  hot, 
arousing  Arnold's  consciousness,  he  was  hustled  to  his  feet, 
into  the  elevator,  and  down  to  a  surface  car.  Here  Terence 
left  them. 

The  Desk-Lieutenant  at  Police  Headquarters  entered  the 
charge  and  seemed  about  to  speak  concerning  disposition,  when 
Arnold's  captors  winked,  and  the  Lieutenant  was  content  with 
ordering  him  into  custody. 

So  his  few  personal  possessions  were  removed;  he  was 
pushed  down  a  flight  of  stairs,  and  up  a  cell-corridor.  His 
small  dark  cell  contained  a  plank  stretched  from  wall  to  wall, 
a  water  tap,  a  toilet.  Not  until  then  did  Wiley  and  Kirsten- 
baum deem  it  safe  to  leave  him. 

"Dangerous  guy,  that,"  he  heard  one  say,  as  they  retraced 
their  way.  "Look  at  my  head.  Keep  an  eye  on  him." 

"Whafs  the  idea?"  asked  the  Lieutenant,  when  they  re- 
turned. 

Kirstenbaum  scowled.     "Don't  quite  understand  it  myself, 


Plunder-land  107 

yet.  uoing  back  now  to  see  the  complainant.  We  wanted 
to  git  him  behind  the  bars  first.  Dangerous  guy,  that — look 
at  my  head."  He  indicated  the  apple  lump. 

"Well,"  said  the  Lieutenant,  "if  they  go  through  with  these 
charges  .  .  ."  He  squinted  along  the  blotter  and  ad- 
dressed his  comrade  of  the  high  desk.  "Ten  years,  eh?" 

The  Sergeant  also  squinted.  "Unless  he  gits  away  with  that 
first  offender  racket — I  ain't  never  seen  his  mug  in  the  Hall 
of  Fame." 

"Listen,"  said  Wiley  contemptuously,  "listen:  he's  goin'  to 
be  chased.  There  ain't  a  tree  high  enough  for  him  to 
climb.  .  .  ." 

Down  in  his  cell,  the  descendant  of  the  fighting  L'Homme- 
dieus — he  who  had  planned  to  be  a  power  for  good  in  the 
land,  to  rectify  abuses,  to  be  a  terror  to  evil-doers:  he  who 
had  scorned  to  apply  to  friends  for  aid  in  so  small  a  matter 
as  the  conquest  of  New  York:  he  who  was  now  a  mass  of 
aches  and  bruises — lay,  face-downward,  on  his  rough  plank 
' — vanquished. 


CHAPTER    TWO 

SONS  OP  SUBTEKKANEA 

I.    SONETCHKA  VlSITS  MOTHER  MTBUS 

VEN"OLD  had  left  Sonetchka  early 
in  the  morning.  She  waited  un- 
til Velvet  Voice  was  due  to  re- 
turn before  she  took  matters  into 
her  own  little  hands:  Annie 
Eunice  must  not  be  allowed  to 
see  her  brother  until  something 
more  hopeful  had  been  arranged. 
Sonetchka  did  not  know  about 
the  rubber  hose,  but  she  was  an 
impressionist  in  emotions  and 
often  as  accurate  intuitively  as  was  Arnold  analytically : 
so  was  conscious  of  her  new  friend's  utter  hopelessness 
with  regard  to  everything  except  Hans.  On  him  she  had  in- 
sisted pathetically.  Even  if  he  was  injured,  there  was  the 
pension;  and  that,  she  had  told  Sonetchka  the  night  before, 
would  realize  her  vision — a  little  patch  of  truck-farm  land, 
eastern  shore  of  Maryland:  the  pension  eked  out  by  straw- 
berries and  Anne  Arundel  tomatoes  for  Baltimore- Washington 
markets.  Thus  in  time,  they  could  build  themselves  a  house : 
at  first  they  would  be  content  with  any  sort  of  rough  shanty. 
She  could  work  if  Hans  was  disabled.  All  they  needed  was 
the  small  capital  necessary  for  a  start  and  to  tida  them  over 
until  profits  began. 


Sons  of  Subterranea  109 

Meanwhile,  as  the  day  wore  on,  Hans  Anderson  Chasserton 
had  bought,  in  imagination,  every  conceivable  article  that  one 
thousand  dollars  could  buy.  As  pitiful  as  was  his  case,  So- 
netchka  had  laughed  many  times  at  his  ridiculous  parodies  of 
sense.  Sometimes,  in  his  wanderings,  he  achieved  a  piece  of 
perfect  nonsense  that  would  have  pleased  the  lovers  of  Lear 
and  Carroll.  He  was  an  entertaining  madman  and  harmless. 

"Come,"  said  Sonetchka,  giving  up  hope  of  Arnold's  return. 
"We  go  'ome,  now." 

"But  Annie  Eunice  ?"  he  asked,  ceasing  his  play  with  the 
little  white  dog.  "I've  got  letters  for  her.  Like  a  flock  of 
birds.  All  white  and  everything.  You  throw  them  up  and 
they  come  down  flying  like  white  geese.  Letters.  For  Miss 
Annie  Eunice  Chasserton,  Hotel  Tippecanoe.  Letters.  One 
thousand  letters.  See?  I  hid  'em  so  they  couldn't  take  'em 
away.  Look." 

He  removed  his  coat,  chuckling,  and,  tearing  some  threads 
of  the  lining,  a  cascade  of  envelopes  rippled  out.  He  threw 
a  handful  up  in  the  air.  "Like  white  geese  they  come  down," 
he  said  delighted.  "I  hid  'em.  I'm  smart,  I  am.  I'll  fool 
'em  all."  Sonetchka  picked  up  some  of  the  envelopes.  On 
each,  inscribed  carefully,  was  his  sister's  name  and  address. 
But  all  were  empty:  fifty  envelopes  and  not  a  letter.  She 
could  see  Hans  in  his  captivity,  carefully  addressing,  then 
hiding  them  away  from  the  sight  of  his  keepers.  Tears  sprang 
to  her  eyes. 

"Come,"  she  said,  patting  his  hands.  "Here :  put  on  this," 
and  she  fetched  from  a  closet  a  man's  great  coat,  tearing  off 
price  and  size  tags.  "She  'as  gone.  Wen  she  come  back,  she 
come  and  get  you.  We  go  'ome  now.  Come." 

She  caught  up  the  little  white  dog,  kissing  and  fondling  it 
extravagantly,  and  murmuring  endearments  in  her  native 
tongue.  Then  she  placed  it  in  a  rose-pink  basket  that  matched 
the  canopy  draperies  of  her  bed,  and  shook  a  warning  finger. 
The  dog  closed  its  eyes  and  played  dead.  Hans  followed  her 
out,  trotting  obediently  alongside  her.  He  had  been  trotting 


110  God's  Man 

alongside  her  all  day ;  at  different  times  she  had  tired  of  wait- 
ing, had  penned  a  message  for  Arnold,  and  had  taken  Hans 
forth;  first  to  a  lunch-room,  again  to  the  moving-pictures,  a 
third  time  to  wander  around  in  the  maze  of  old  New  York 
streets  of  which  Astor  Place  is  the  center.  The  Hotel  Tippe- 
canoe  was  just  around  the  corner  from  it,  on  that  forgotten 
Manhattan  thoroughfare — almost  "no  thoroughfare"  nowa- 
days— Lafayette  Street. 

This  time  they  turned  west  along  Eighth  Street,  past  the 
mansions  of  the  one-time  great,  now  the  sweatshops  of  such 
as  Simonski,  for  trousers,  vest  and  shirtwaist-making;  past 
the  Brevoort  House,  its  old  face  rejuvenated  with  white 
paint.  .  .  . 

"Washington  Square  was  a  thing  of  beauty  and  mystery 
against  that  winter  sky  of  blue,  its  trees  silver-laced  and  inter- 
woven with  the  flakes  and  festoonery  of  the  Snow-Queen.  Huge 
crystal  balls  of  light,  like  iridescent  fruits  of  the  night,  illumi- 
nated its  ice  and  snow  until  the  old  Square  shone  like  some 
Russian  winter  palace.  Over  it  all  Judson's  cross,  the  highest 
ornament  on  the  highest  Christmas  tree,  seemed  lowered  from 
the  very  sky.  Hans  wished  to  climb  the  tree  and  get  the  cross 
to  give  to  the  Little  One  to  wear. 

"You  come,"  Sonetchka  said  severely. 

Abashed,  Hans  trotted  on.  They  passed  Jefferson  Market, 
and  its  old  police  court  where  Arnold,  almost  at  that  moment, 
was  being  arraigned. 

Then  it  seemed  that  they  disappeared,  like  folk  in  a  fairy- 
tale. Ninety-nine  passers-by  would  have  failed  to  observe  the 
entrance  to  Eupert  Court,  that  narrow  arched  passageway  set 
in  between  a  tobacconist's  and  his  aunt's  penny-shop.  The 
passageway  was  slippery  with  ice.  Some  primal  instinct  that 
had  survived  both  boyhood  and  loss  of  reason,  stirred  in  Hans, 
producing  some  Pyle-like  pictures.  .  .  . 

An  old  hexagonal  lantern,  mounted  on  a  post,  and  kept 
alight  by  Mother  Mybus — the  lamplighter  of  the  district  had 
long  forgotten  it — illumined  the  frozen  flagstones  and  picked 


Sons  of  Subterranca  111 

out  the  three  golden  apples  over  the  doorway.  Sonetchka 
entered  the  shop-door,  pressing  a  button  that  silenced  the  bell. 
A  high-collared  young  Hebrew,  ideal  of  "dressy"  Fourteenth 
Street  men,  greeted  her  warmly  but  with  respect. 

"Ain't  seen  you  since  George  Washington  died/'  he  said: 
adding  benevolently:  "say  I  heard  a  scream  the  other  night. 
A  'comic'  downta  K.  &  P.'s  ses:  'I  didn't  know  he  was  sick.' 
.  .  .  Going  in  ?" 

"No,  I  come  'ere  jus'  to  see  you,  you  so  'andsome,"  she  re- 
torted, rebuking  him.  Then  in  more  gracious  tones :  "I  wish 
you  would  look  hafter  my  fren'  'ere — "  she  indicated  Hans, 
interested  in  the  show-case,  and  tapped  her  head  significantly ; 
then  stooped  and  disappeared  by  a  rabbit-hutch  door  beneath 
the  counter. 

II.  THE  UNGODLY  HORDE 

Mother  Mybus'  was  a  business  that  required  neither  pub- 
licity nor  casual  patronage.  That  street-strollers  were  un- 
aware of  her  presence  up  the  narrow  passageway,  that  thus 
she  failed  to  find  a  market  for  many  remarkable  bargains,  that 
their  tickets  were  soon  flyblown,  failed  to  disturb  Mother's  se- 
renity. Hers  was  a  soul  that  yearned  for  no  intrusions.  When 
she  heard  a  stranger's  step  follow  the  hideous  tintinnabulation 
of  her  special  shop-bell,  she  peered  out  from  behind  her  iron 
grill  in  positive  annoyance.  No  hostess,  mindful  of  a  reputa- 
tion for  exclusiveness,  could  have  been  more  upset  at  alien  in- 
trusion. Mr.  Hartogensis'  notions  of  English  exclusiveness 
were  simply  nowhere. 

Her  guests  knew  better  than  to  annoy  Mother  by  allowing 
the  shop-bell  to  ring.  They  pressed  a  button  as  Sonia  did, 
one  out  of  ordinary  sight,  and  passed  in  noiselessly  on  rub- 
ber-heeled boots.  Then  Mother  minded  no  more  than  the 
flies  that  buzzed  about  her  flowers.  She  sat  silent  with  her 
knitting  before  what  had  once  been  the  Yew  Tree  kitchen- 
fire  :  a  huge  space  of  red  tiles  and  red  bricks,  in  summer  filled 


112  God's  Man 

with  pots  and  tubs  and  boxes — for,  since  Mother  had  come 
to  Rupert  Court,  she  had  remembered  that,  in  her  native  RUP- 
sia,  flowers  bloomed  in  the  spring  and  many  might  be  kept 
alive  all  year. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  fireplace,  also  in  line  with  the  iron 
grill,  there  sat  at  all  seasons,  one  as  thin  as  Mother  was  fat, 
as  screwed  and  scrawny  of  face  as  she  was  round  and  placid, 
a  fellow  who  was  her  age  and  looked  her  father's;  one  who 
wore  spectacles  of  expensive  black  tortoise-shell.  It  was  her 
one  mania  to  help  him  pretend  he  was  not  quite  blind. 

He  would  often  call  out  wrongly,  that  some  man  was  wear- 
ing a  red  tie,  or  some  woman  a  purple  dress,  and  woe  to  the 
uninitiated  who  dared  to  correct  him,  or  do  other  than  echo 
Mother's  admiring  assurance  that  it  was  wonderful  how 
Nikko's  sight  was  returning;  soon  he  would  be  as  able  to  see 
as  you  or  me. 

Nikko  had  been  her  sweetheart  in  Petersburg,  and  when 
the  Autocracy  had  broken  up  his  hand  printing-press  and  he 
was  sent  to  the  quicksilver  mines,  for  such  iconoclastic  state- 
ments as  those  of  the  Brotherhood  of  Man,  Mother  had  heard 
of  it,  and  had  sent  after  him  a  man  who  had  reason  to  know 
the  horrors  of  convict  labor  and  who  was  expert  in  escapes. 
This  one  had  found  that  bribes  are  as  adequate  in  Siberia,  as 
elsewhere,  and  police  as  easy  to  hoodwink. 

But  he  had  brought  back  a  blind  Nikko — a  condition  not 
unusual  to  the  miners  of  mercury,  yet  this  fat,  wicked  old 
woman  was  so  illogical  as  to  regard  it  as  a  special  persecu- 
tion and  to  use  it  as  an  added  excuse  for  her  depredations 
on  a  sane  and  upright  state. 

But,  because  Nikko  might  not  allow  himself  to  be  sup- 
ported without  protest,  she  pretended  there  was  some  income 
derived  from  the  sale  of  those  works  of  his,  no  longer  of  the 
Brotherhood  of  Man,  but  the  Efficiency  of  Rebellion.  These 
he  wrote  laboriously,  tracing  his  lines  by  means  of  a  narrow 
band  of  rubber  slipped  along  the  page,  and  of  each  pamphlet 
Mother  had  a  few  bound  in  tooled  calf  with  raised  gold  let- 


Sons  of  Subterranea  113 

ters,  so  that  he  could  appraise  them  with  thin  approving 
fingers.  The  remainder  of  the  pamphlets,  unbound,  were 
sent  out  to  a  private  mailing  list,  to  which  he  was  always 
adding  new  names.  The  printing  of  Nikko's  work  cost 
Mother  the  proceeds  of  many  remarkable  burglaries.  But 
she  was  recompensed  by  the  forceful  effects  of  Nikko's  propa- 
ganda. There  was  no  burglary,  or  pickpocketing,  or  crime — 
only  War.  Once  begun,  he  would  preach  excitedly : 

"They  take  our  labor  and  our  time — " 

"Not  mine,"  Pink,  the  Cagey  Kid,  interrupted  on  first 
hearing  this.  "I  take  theirs."  It  was  purely  a  technical 
joke.  This  "Kid"  specialized  in  watches — "soupers,"  he 
called  them. 

But  Nikko  never  heeded  interruptions;  "and  they  build 
palaces  with  our  blood  and  bones.  It  takes  a  dozen  chil- 
dren's lives  each  year  for  the  upkeep  of  one  of  their  mis- 
tresses— " 

"Ah,"  said  the  Phony  Kid,  "that  shows  they  don't  know 
women.  I've  grabbed  many  a  dame  like  that  and  never  give 
her  nothing  but  a  punch  in  the  jaw.  They  don't  know  every- 
thing, them  rich  guys." 

But  when  a  man  has  lost  his  eyes  for  a  Cause  he  can  only 
win,  or  die;  so  Nikko  had  no  sense  of  humor,  a  handicap  to 
people  in  deadly  earnest  anyhow.  In  the  end  he  prevailed 
over  lighter  spirits.  His  similes  took  hold  of  their  imagina- 
tions ;  rebels  against  authority  are  always  imaginative.  They 
liked  hearing  themselves  called  "Eebels,"  their  activities 
"War."  It  pleased  them  to  know  that,  all  along  without 
being  aware  of  it,  they  were  setting  good  examples  to  the  sub- 
merged seventh. 

"They  throw  away  the  wealth  of  the  world  with  both  hands, 
wealth  we  helped  to  make,  and  they  offer  us,  not  our  half  or 
our  quarter,  or  even  our  tenth — they  offer  us  only  enough  to 
keep  us  alive,  so  that  we  can  go  on  working  for  them.  And 
I  say  that  every  man  who  rejects  their  unfair  bargain  does  a 
noble  thing — " 


114  God's  Man 

"Pink,  you're  noble,"  said  the  Phony  Kid. 

"So're  you,  Beau,"  replied  the  Cagey  Kid.  And  they  shook 
hands  and  embraced. 

"We  are  two  jolly  noblemen,  we  are  because  we're  noble," 
they  sang  cheerily. 

"Why  are  we  noble,  Nick?"  asked  Pink. 

The  "Pink"  was  Pink  because  he  took  a  devilish  pleasure 
in  causing  Pinkerton  race-track  detectives  to  "look  more  than 
usually  silly" — to  quote  him — by  abstracting  their  watches  on 
all  possible  occasions;  and  he  was  "Cagey"  and  "Kid"  also 
for  the  reason  that  he  had  never  been  arrested  and  was  juven- 
ile of  appearance. 

"I  ask  you,  Nikko  Nikkovitch,  I  ask  you,  as  one  nobleman 
to  another,  why  are  we  noble?" 

"Children,"  Nikko  would  say  wearily.  He  passed  a  with- 
ered hand  over  a  troubled  forehead.  Mother  Mybus  frowned 
and  the  two  youths  looked  serious. 

"I  wasn't  joking,  Mr.  Nikko,"  said  Pink  with  the  air  of  a 
dutiful  and  eager  scholar.  "I  merely  wisht  to  know  why  was 
it,  that  was  all." 

"They  offer  us — you — him — all  our  class — wages  to  be 
their  bondmen.  Only  enough  that  we  may  marry;  marry 
and  bring  other  slaves  into  the  world.  No  joy,  no  light,  no 
laughter.  Children  though  you  are,  you  knew  their  offer  was 
unfair  and  you  refused  it.  You  became  Eebels,  and  if  every 
one  of  your  class  would  do  the  same,  the  Masters  would  make 
other  laws,  fairer  laws — laws  that  if  they  dare  to  prevent  you 
stealing,  they  must  make  their  McKisses  cease  stealing.  Steal- 
ing, no  matter  what  name  they  give  it,  for  'you  own  the  law/ 
say  the  Rebels.  'Very  well,  we  reject  it.  We  will  make  our 
own  laws  until  you  make  better  ones.'  Do  you  understand  ?" 

They  did  not,  precisely,  for  Nikko's  was  book-English;  but 
the  Phony  Kid  was  moved  to  contemplation.  "I  dunno  as 
I  ever  thought  much  about  it  before,  but  I  guess  you're  right, 
Mr.  Nikko." 

He  considered  his  own  case,  his  father  in  the  mills,  too 


Sons  of  Subterranea  115 

weary  when  he  came  home  to  do  anything  but  fall  into  a 
heavy  sleep  after  dinner,  except  on  Saturday  night,  when  he 
came  home  drunk  and  laughing  and  told  funny  stories  and 
sometimes  took  them  into  the  gallery  of  a  theater.  "Beau" — 
his  mother,  poor,  fluttering  creature,  with  a  penny-novelty 
habit,  had  christened  him  "Beau-lieu" — had  liked  his  father 
better  when  he  was  drunk.  .  .  . 

"Come  on  up  to  the  Attic,  sucker,"  said  Pink,  breaking  in 
upon  his  own  and  his  partner's  gloom.  "Nothing  like  Li-un 
for  plottin'  against  the  Common  Enemy.  .  .  ." 

"It  grows — slowly  but  surely,"  said  the  blind  man;  and, 
until  Sonia  came  that  night,  meditated  and  massaged  more 
of  the  mercury  out  of  his  thin  wrists  than  he  had  for  many 
silver  moons. 

III.  HANS  CHASSEETON  TAKES  UP  RESIDENCE  AT  THE 
YEW  TREE  INN 

It  was  not  a  room  to  invite  suspicion,  that  old  Inn  kitchen, 
with  its  shining  flagstones,  oak  doors,  huge  fireplace  .with 
hissing  teapot  on  the  hob  and  sleek  cat  snoozing  on  warm 
tiles,  decorated  with  domestic  scenes  from  Dutch  life,  as  was 
its  Delft-blue  china  in  an  overhead  rack;  and  in  the  broad 
belly  of  its  bay-window — its  panes  opaque  for  a  far  different 
reason  than  those  of  the  Tippecanoe — red  geraniums  in  green 
window-boxes.  Nor  were  the  old  people  other  than  types 
of  an  admirable  and  irreproachable  family  life,  until  one  saw 
Mother's  eyes — those  of  some  ancient  but  very  wicked  mouse. 

She  was  in  her  accustomed  place  on  one  side  of  the  fire- 
place, Nikko  on  the  other.  There  was  no  light  except  that 
of  the  leaping  red  flames,  and  neither  Nikko  nor  Mother 
turned  when  Sonetchka  entered.  Too  many  passed  through 
for  Mother  to  show  interest,  and  Nikko  for  all  his  expensive 
tortoise-shell  spectacles  might  look  all  he  liked.  .  .  . 

But  because  Mother  prided  herself  on  a  certain  technical 
virtue — the  technique  of  which,  after  being  revised  by  every 


116  God's  Man 

technician,  from  Adam  to  Aristotle,  had  been  abandoned  in 
despair — few  females  were  "in  right"  at  the  Inn.  And  Nikko 
needed  no  spectacles  for  one  with  so  light,  so  'ladylike"  a 
footfall. 

"The  Little  One,"  he  called  joyfully.  Mother  dropped  her 
knitting;  and,  not  only  an  ancient  but  an  enceinte  mouse 
when  afoot,  waddled  to  and  pawed  Sonetchka  as  such  a  rodent 
might  paw  another  and  dutiful  and  younger  bringer  of  suc- 
culence. .  .  . 

"It  is  ihou,  Naughty  One,"  she  chuckled.  .  .  .  So- 
netchka, answering  both,  added  endearments  surprisingly 
American  compared  with  Nikko's  sonorous  Slavonic.  Mother 
fetched  her  own  comfortable  chair,  knelt  and,  wheezing,  un- 
laced little  fur-lined,  fur-topped  storm-boots  and  rubbed  little 
silk-stockinged  feet ;  Sonetchka  seeming  to  accept  these  offices 
as  her  right. 

"Naughty,  wicked  Little  One,"  excoriated  Mother;  "who 
hast  caused  thy  batushka  and  thy  mama  to  grieve  as  for  one 
lost  lamb !  Three  weeks  since  we  saw  this  Ungrateful  Little 
Animal,  eh,  Alexandrovitch  ?  .  .  .  Would  thou  wert  mine, 
and  how  I  would  knout  thee,  Most  Mischievous  of  Little 
Frogs." 

Sonetchka  laughed.  Mother  was  her  dearest  Mama  Petra 
Borisovna,  she  averred — and  Nikko,  who  had  also  begun  to 
scold,  was  her  darling  Papa  and  Saint  Nicholas.  .'  .  . 
And  Mother,  mollified,  shod  the  Cinderella  feet  in  red-heeled, 
ruby-studded  dancing  slippers,  a  pair  that  had  attracted  the 
Inn's  attention  while  dancing  their  owner  into  what  the  sen- 
sational "Sundays"  called  "society."  And  Sonia  uncoiled 
Mother's  mighty  masses  of  Indian-red  hair — an  especial  pride 
— beseeching  the  while  certain  esteemed  Slavonic  Saints  to 
verify  her  statement  that  Mama  Petra  was  little  more  than  a 
"Little  One"  herself. 

"If  Nicholas  Alexandrovitch  could  only  see  thee,"  she  sup- 
plemented, stroking  and  releasing  in  its  loose  abundance  each 


Sons  of  Subterranea  117 

heavy  braid  until  the  kneeling  fat  woman  was  enveloped  in  a 
mantle  that,  as  the  mane  of  some  roan  mare,  might  have  had 
points.  .  .  .  But  no  Sonia  becomes  a  Sonetchka,  nor  any 
Bona,  Bonita  without  possessing  what  is  more  important  than 
physical  beauty.  And  this  Sonia  saw  what  Mother  wanted 
her  to  see. 

"He  would  be  proud,  that  Father  Nikko,  that  latushka. 
Eh,  son  of  Alexander's  son  ?" 

"He  sees,  that  Alexandrovitch,"  said  Mother,  with  sudden 
asperity.  "And  better  each  day,  eh,  Mkovita?  Last  Saint's 
day  it  is  my  good  fortune  to  observe  the  most  powerful  lenses. 
And  so  I  send  our  Mr.  Pink  to  that  Fifth  Avenue  shop  and 
the  frames  are  the  real  shell  of  the  best  turtle,  taken  from  a 
pair  awaiting  their  adjustment  to  some  gilt-edged  boyar.  Al- 
ready he  paid  fifty  roubles.  In  my  girl  days  fifty  roubles  was 
riches.  It  would  be  strange  indeed  if  Alexandrovitch  saw  no 
more  clearly  with  a  moujilc's  fortune  on  his  nose.  .  .  ." 

"Always  I  know  when  something  quite  bright  dazzles  me," 
confirmed  this  cunning  and  mentally  sound-sighted  son  of 
Alexander,  who,  from  acquiescing  in  Mother's  hallucination 
of  his  improving  sight,  had  found  a  chance  for  perpetual  com- 
pliment. Also  had  grown  to  believe  that  he  saw  what  he 
ought  to  see.  These  were  his  seventh  spectacles.  Master 
Pink  had  taken  an  unnecessary  risk  in  adding  another  pair 
of  frames.  But  Pink's  was  the  usual  zeal  of  the  artist. 
And  to  snatch  the  spectacles  of  a  Sir  Hubert  of  the  Street 
after  they  had  rested  on  his  nearly  nose.  .  .  . 

"Very  bright — thou  hearest — and  I  spoke  no  word  of  hav- 
ing unloosened  thy  hair.  And  does  it  not  shine  very  bright, 
as  Alexandrovitch  says?"  .  .  . 

Mother  leaned  over  and  kissed  the  Little  One  as  if  she  had 
been  responsible  for  a  novel  miracle.  Yet,  Mother  knew  that 
Nikko  knew  that  little  Sonia  could  not  resist  the  temptation 
of  unloosening  that  hair,  so  that  she  might  coil  and  recoil  it 
in  odd  and  bizarre  coiffures.  Thus  employed,  standing  be- 


118  God's  Man 

hind  Mother,  who  had  resumed  her  seat,  Sonetchka  explained 
her  absence ;  and  that  she  explained  in  Slavonic  explains  the 
absence  of  slang  and  massacres  of  Murray. 

"Such  disgrace !  I  am  arrested  in  Delaney's  by  a  common 
store  detective,  me — the  Little  One !  to  be  arrested  by  a  com- 
mon store  detective,  and  to  beg  and  pray  and  weep  to  the 
owner;  I  shall  not  forget  that  humiliation,  never!  I  told 
him,  oh,  such  lies — anything  the  good  God  put  into  my  little 
head.  Not  even  did  I  conceive  I  was  to  be  sent  to  jail.  I 
told  him  that  I  only  feared  that  my  worthy  mother  and  father 
should  expire  from  shock.  Once,  in  France  (I  was  a  little 
French  girl)  my  parents  had  been  rich  and,  oh,  how  I  was 
dressed ;  oh,  so  beautiful !  But,  here,  they  were  poor  and  I 
could  not  dress,  oh,  so  beautiful!  (And  I  shed  tears,  and 
loud!)  So  I  stole — and — oh,  sir,  this  is  the  first  time.  Oh, 
sir,  if  you  knew  how  I  wanted  beautiful  things,  oh,  so  much ! 
.  .  .  The  owner — that  good  old  man — he  looked  close  at 
me  and  sent  away  the  store  detective.  'My  dear,  you  do  not 
need  to  steal/  he  said.  And  with  his  hair  so  nearly  white, 
he  told  me  we  must  be  very  careful  when  we  met  for  fear  of 
the  scandal — of  meeting  his  grandchildren,  no  doubt.  He 
took  me  to  a  restaurant  private  room,  and  there  he  made  love. 
But  I  was  innocent,  and,  oh !  so  much  afraid !  He  said  I 
would  soon  learn  to  love  any  one  who  would  be  so  good  to 
me — ctee-mid  leetle  w'ite  birrd/  .  .  ." 

She  ceased  her  Slavic  speech  to  mimic  other  throatily 
tender  metaphors,  marred  by  a  gradual  and  ghoulish  thicken- 
ing of  lips — not  hers.  It  was  remarkable  that  her  thin, 
straight  little  lower  lip  and  short,  rosy,  curved  upper  could 
reproduce  such  sickening  sounds.  .  .  .  "And  who  would 
not  be  kind  to  me?  Next  day,  when  we  met,  I  would  be 
wearing,  oh !  such  a  beautiful  ring.  And  he  kissed  me  good 
night  whether  I  willed  or  not.  And  so  I  took  his  watch. 
Jus'  like  zat." 

She  relapsed  into  English  again,  and,  burrowing  into  a 
huge  white-fox  pillow-muff,  produced  many  mysteries  in 


Sons  of  Subterranea  119 

white  tissue  paper,  one  of  which  was  solved  when  Sonia, 
scorning  Nikko's  spectacles,  unwrapped  a  watch  the  thinness 
of  a  soda-wafer. 

"Fifty  little  roubles!  Bah!  Five  thousand,  zis!  Zat 
for  your  Mr.  P-i-n-k !"  snapping  little  jeweled  fingers  and 
plunking  out  the  "Pink"  with  the  sound  of  pistol-shot  and 
exit  of  projectile.  .  .  .  One  unversed  in  that  most  ob- 
vious and  persistent  paradox,  a  woman's  use  of  words  to  con- 
ceal her  meaning,  might  have  imagined  Master  Pink  "in 
Dutch,"  to  quote  him. 

Nikko's  forefinger  flew  furiously  across  his  knee.  He  was 
taking  long  notes  for  his  next  pamphlet  on  capitalist  infamy. 
His  black  finger-nail  seemed  a  stylus ;  at  any  rate  such  panto- 
mime performances  were  somehow  transferred  from  cuticle 
to  cerebellum. 

"Good — nobly  done,"  was  his  scowling  comment.  "Thou 
wert  always  my  best  of  rebels.  .  .  ." 

"But  Sonia  Yictorona  was  to  explain  her  absence  of  these 
three  weeks,  .  .  ."  Mother  reminded  him  mildly.  No 
chance  for  satiating  curiosity  if  Nikko  began  inveighing 
against  modern  Bluebeards.  .  .  .  Yet  her  tone  conceded 
him  the  right  of  decision. 

"It  was  Mordkin,"  said  the  Little  One,  with  an  air  of  hav- 
ing satisfied  both  listeners.  She  wanted  to  polish  up  on 
Nikko's  "peculiar"  political  economics;  needed  to  if  ever  she 
was  to  effect  Velvet  Voice's  conversion  to  her  own  creed. 

Mother  wrung  her  hands. 

"Thy  love  for  dancing,"  she  wailed;  "I  knew  it  could  not 
be  good.  And  now  you  love  a  dancer.  When  you  could  not 
love  one  of  my  boys !" 

The  Little  One  laughed,  then  was  as  grave  as  she  had  been 

gay- 

"My  dog — "  she  said,  "that  dear  darling  of  mine,  my  own 
treasure,  his  mama's  little  friend,  the  dearest  in  the  whole 
world.  Always  I  come  at  eight.  I  feed  him.  That  night 
the  old  one  kept  me  to  know  where  I  live.  And  that  Mordkin 


120  God's  Man 

he  screams  and  cries  his  little  self  into  fits.  Two  whole 
hours  he  screams.  When  I  come  I  must  have  in  a  doc- 
tor. .  .  .  That  night  I  dream  grandmama's  spirit  comes 
and  whispers :  'Once  fallen,  luck  gone.  Steal  again,  no  es- 
cape !'  And  I  dream  I  am  in  prison  and  my  darling  Mord- 
kin  cry  himself  dead,  and  I  am  a  murderess  never  to  be  for- 
given by  Father  God,  and  I  wake  up  and  see  my  little  white 
darling  with  his  little  black  nose  so  sweet,  and  his  little  red 
tongue  so  cute,  peeping  out,  and  I  promise  him  I  don't  steal 
no  more,  not  once  more,  but  be  good  girl.  .  .  ."  At  least 
that  is  the  nearest  literal  translation  of  her  breathless  nar- 
rative. 

"Just  like  zat,"  she  concluded,  dropping  into  English 
again. 

She  spoke  with  intense  seriousness,  and  the  little  white 
dog's  death  agonies  revived  in  retrospect  the  original  emotion 
reproduced,  she  wept  noisily.  Neither  of  the  older  folk  con- 
tradicted her.  Mother  Mybus  was  Slavic,  hence  supersti- 
tious; and  Nikko,  the  mystic,  called  his  superstition  symbol- 
ism. But  .  .  . 

.  "She  soon  forgets  and  goes  back  again,"  thought  Mother, 
knowing  Sonetchka's  love  for  expensive  clothes.  But  to  con- 
tradict her  spiritual  protector  was  to  invite  ill-luck.  As  for 
Nikko,  he  was  busy  endeavoring  to  symbolize  the  little  white 
dog. 

"Then  I  move  my  things  to  a  cheap  hotel,  so  the  money 
will  last — a  hotel  where  I  live  once  when  I  am  very  poor.  I 
do  not  even  bring  you  the  last  things  I  steal — tapestries  and 
candlesticks  and  furs.  .  .  .  Instead  I  use  them  to  fix  up 
the  ugly  cheap  rooms.  I  think  and  think  and  think  and  then 
grandmama  come  again  and  says:  'Go  be  a  dancer  on  the 
stage,  for  you  can  dance  so  well/  Those  three  weeks  I  look 
around  to  be  a  dancer.  They  say  'Chorus/  I  say,  'Net!' 
.  .  .  I  find  plenty  places  to-morrow,  next  week,  next 
month.  It  is  not  about  that  I  come  about,  but  for  my 
friend—" 


Sons  of  Subterranea  121 

She  told  them  of  Annie  Eunice  and  Hans.  Nikko  arose 
and  stumped  the  room,  thumping  his  rubber-tipped  walking- 
stick  violently,  and  deciding  that  the  great  revolution  Bhould 
be  several  years  sooner.  Mr.  Krafft^  client  should  pay  dearly 
for  these  wrongs  done  the  Chassertons.  Then  Mother  Mybus 
sat  stolidly,  only  wishing  Nikko  would  not  excite  himself 
over  everybody;  her  sympathies  were  for  her  friends;  nor  was 
she  above  profiting  by  the  bitter  need  of  business  acquaint- 
ances afoul  of  "the  common  enemy."  These  sentiments  and 
actions,  however,  she  concealed  painstakingly  from  Nikko. 

"And  so  I  have  brought  the  boy  here  to  thee."  Sonetchka, 
finishing  her  story,  became  affectionate  again,  with  "thee's" 
and  "thou's."  "Many  times  have  I  heard  Mama  Petra 
Borisovna  desire  a  man-servant,  deaf  and  dumb  like  in  Africa, 
one  who  could  understand  nothing,  tell  nothing.  This  Hans 
will  be  such  a  one.  He  understands  nothing;  he  can  tell 
nothing,  and  if  you  say  he  will  be  seized  and  sent  away  again 
he  will  not  dare  venture  out-of-doors.  It  will  relieve  thee  of 
much  housework,  little  mother.  To  think  that  thou,  a  rich 
woman,  must  labor  and  sweat  with  pail  and  bucket  and  mop. 
And  so  many  rooms,  too — n 

"They  clean  their  own  rooms,  many  of  them,"  said  Mother 
hesitantly.  "It  is  not  so  much  work." 

Nikko  broke  in  sharply  upon  her.  One  would  never  have 
imagined  from  their  respective  attitudes  that  the  business 
and  the  money  were  Mother's  and  that  Nikko  existed  by  her 
generosity.  He  spoke  with  all  authority. 

"We  will  take  the  boy,  Petra  Borisovna,"  he  said  sternly. 
"Why  do  you  suppose  the  good  Father  allows  you  to  wax  rich 
if  not  to  aid  His  injured  ones  ?  It  is  well,  too,  to  have  such 
an  unfortunate  in  the  house.  The  sight  of  him,  and  the 
knowledge  of  his  wrongs,  will  make  the  boys  braver  and 
more  daring;  will  encourage  them  to  go  farther,  and  what  is 
mos't  to  you,  to  more  profitable  business." 

Mother's  eyes  brightened.  Nikko  was  always  right.  So- 
netchka, needing  no  more  than  such  a  look,  opened  the  low 


122  God's  Man 

rabbit-hutch  door  and  told  the  high-collared  shopman  to  send 
in  her  friend. 

"Zis  ees  your  'ome,  'Ontz,"  she  said,  shaking  a  finger  at 
the  friend  when  he  appeared.  "Zere  ees  Muzzer  and  zat  is 
Farzzer.  Zey  will  make  you  'appy  and  you  will  do  w*at  zey 
say,  ju'  like  zat.  Kees  your  muzzer,  'Ontz ;  kees  your  f  arzzer." 

Bashfully,  finger  to  his  mouth,  the  boy  advanced,  pushed 
by  Sonia,  and  touched  each  forehead  with  dry  lips.  Nikko 
caught  his  hand,  patted  it,  welcoming  him,  reassuring  him. 

The  boy's  eyes  brightened.  "Following  in  father's  foot- 
steps, following  my  dear  old  dad,"  he  said  affectionately. 
"And  everything  was  like  you  want  it.  Yes.  Peas  and 
sweet-peas  and  green  corn  and  tomatoes.  And  a  honey- 
suckle vine.  And  all  the  boys  they  say  to  me,  good-day 
to  me,  hurray  to  me.  .  .  .  See  this  coat — you  wouldn't 
think  it  cost  a  thousand  dollars.  Yes." 

"Sit  down,  boy,"  said  Nikko,  peering  at  him  helplessly. 
"Sit  down."  He  pushed  forward  his  hassock  with  a  slip- 
pered foot.  The  boy  seated,  the  old  man  quieted  him  with 
a  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  Hans,  soon  silent,  watched  the 
fire.  Sonia  yawned,  stretched  her  arms,  debated  a  question. 

"You  want  that  you  should  go  up  to  the  Attic,  eh  ?"  asked 
Mother  slyly,  surmising  accurately. 

Sonetchka's  scornful  snort  served  to  negative  this,  .  .  . 
until  Mother  added :  "All  the  boys  they  are  there  now,  never 
so  many  at  one  time.  Good  business  to-day,  never  better. 
.  .  .  Mister  Pink,  him,  too." 

"Wat  I  care  for  your  Pinks?"  asked  Sonetchka,  again 
scornfully.  Both  unconsciously  relapsed  into  English  when 
they  discussed  matters  involving  the  untranslatable  jargon  of 
subterranea. 

Mother  choked  a  laugh,  forbearing  to  irritate  the  returned 
prodigal,  and  Sonia  presently  reconsidered.  "Oh,  well,"  she 
said,  rising.  "Oh,  well,  .  .  .  and  moved  off  toward 
the  stairway  and  Apricott's  Attic. 


Sons  of  Subterranea  123 

At  the  foot  of  the  attic  stairs  she  gave  three  short  rings  and 
three  long  ones.  A  huge  door,  sheathed  in  sheet  iron,  swung 
outward  automatically  by  a  mechanism  used  in  those  cheaper 
Manhattan  flats  that  have  neither  hall-porters  nor  elevators, 
and  a  pair  of  morose  eyes  regarded  the  ringer. 

IV.  OLD  MITT-AND-A-HALF 

The  swallows'  nests  were  just  under  the  eaves ;  here  was  the 
attic  where  Jan  Hartogensis  and  Amalia  had  slept;  where, 
now,  only  the  most  trusted  of  Mother's  customers  were  al- 
lowed. If  Mother's  room  of  the  grille  was  a  select  and  ex- 
clusive club,  this  was  the  Holy  of  Holies.  .  .  . 

It  was  in  charge  of  Enoch  Apricott,  ascetic,  with  a  face 
like  some  melancholy  King  of  Diamonds,  for  his  eyebrows 
drew  down  his  forehead  into  a  V-shape,  an  equilateral  tri- 
angle, their  articulation  its  apex.  Such  another  was  the 
lower  part  of  his  face — one  to  delight  a  Cubist — a  broader  tri- 
angle this,  with  the  chin  for  its  point,  a  chin  like  Punchi- 
nello's, the  line  joining  his  high  cheek-bones,  its  base — a 
line  that  crossed  heavy,  sunken,  discontented  eyes.  Above 
the  chin  were  bloodless,  almost  fleshless,  lips.  Ascetic?  It 
was  the  face  of  a  Jesuit. 

No  woman  had  ever  entered  his  life ;  no  woman  ever  should, 
he  swore.  It  was  a  part  of  his  religion,  and  a  stern  and  stead- 
fast adherence  to  religion  was  necessary  to  one  whose  fore- 
bears foreswore  all  else  to  worship  in  their  own  way;  who, 
ever  since,  had  sacrificed  most  of  the  joy  of  this  life  for  one 
more  enduring  hereafter.  Yet  their  descendant  kept  a  ren- 
dezvous for  thieves;  and,  a  disciple  of  Swedenborg,  justified 
himself.  The  Lord  was  forging  in  the  fire  of  His  wrath  the 
Mighty  Flail  to  sweep  clear  the  Unjust  Kings  and  Wicked 
Princes.  These  men  who  gathered  in  the  Attic  were  the 
Scourge  of  Locusts,  the  Pest  of  Flies,  appointed  by  the  Lord 
to  Devour  and  to  Sting,  pending  the  time  when  Pomp  and 


124  God's  Man 

Pride  should  rise  to  its  height  and  the  Mighty  Flail  should 
descend. 

Enoch  Apricott.  The  foreman  at  the  Garryowen  shops 
could  have  told  you  that  such  a  one  had  for  fifteen  years  been  on 
his  pay-roll,  beginning  as  apprentice,  finishing  as  expert  ma- 
chinist at  seven  dollars  and  fifty  cents  per  diem ;  diligent,  ear- 
nest and  careful ;  and,  at  the  lunch-hour  annoying  fellow  work- 
men by  expounding  hidden  meanings  in  Revelations  and  other 
Apocryphal  "Books."  "Mitt-and-a-Half ' — by  the  underworld 
dictionary,  "mitt"  a  hand,  "half"  differing  from  no  other  half. 
But  Enoch  had  lost  three  fingers  of  his  right  hand,  so  that  "a 
half"  was  a  slight  euphemism.  That  same  foreman  would 
have  sworn  that  Enoch  lost  those  missing  ones  through  rep- 
rehensible carelessness,  this  conflicting  slightly  with  his  gen- 
eral statement  of  "diligent,  earnest  and  careful."  One  does 
not  remain  foreman  at  the  Garryowen  by  giving  testimony  in 
law-courts  that  will  result  in  heavy  damages  to  be  paid  by  the 
defendant;  so,  when  called  upon  as  a  witness,  the  foreman 
failed  to  remember  that  he  had  recommended  the  machine 
which  was  to  snatch  away  Apricott's  expertness,  be  "scrapped" 
and  a  new  one  installed  on  which  the  belt  would  not  slip. 
The  superintendent,  who  had  forwarded  the  recommendation 
urgently  advising  it,  suffered  from  a  similar  lapse  of  memory. 
So  Apricott  went  out  to  find  work  suitable  to  a  man  with  only 
a  hand  and  two-fifths,  while  the  Garryowen  Company  con- 
tinued paying  twenty  per  cent,  dividends  and  a  large  salary 
to  the  learned  corporation  counsel  who  helped  save  them  from 
the  necessity  of  paying  damages  to  disabled  workmen. 

It  was  then  Apricott  began  to  believe  in  the  Mighty  Flail, 
the  Unjust  Kings  and  the  Wicked  Princes,  among  whom  he 
would  have  numbered,  had  he  known,  Benjamin  Hartogensis, 
Esquire,  the  distinguished  country-gentleman  who  owned  a 
large  block  of  Garryowen  stock,  the  entire  price  for  which  he 
was  not  to  pay  until  his  son,  Archie,  began  to  frequent  Enoch's 
Attic. 


Sons  of  Subterranea  125 

Apricott  had  not  come  to  Attic-keeping  all  at  once.  He 
had  yet  to  eat  up  his  savings  while  he  discovered  how  little 
work  was  actually  suited  to  a  hand  and  two-fifths.  It  was 
only  Mother  Mybus  who  found  any  good  reason  for  the  exist- 
ence of  one  with  missing  fingers.  He  had  come  in  to  pawn 
his  most  precious  possession,  to  which  he  had  held  the  longest 
— a  huge  watch-chain,  some  sort  of  emblem  of  high  standing 
in  a  Machinists'  Secret  Order.  Her  assistant  had  returned 
to  her  to  have  it  appraised,  interrupting  an  earnest  conversa- 
tion with  a  gentleman  renowned  for  daring  but  lacking  skill. 
If  only  she  had  some  one  to  send  with  him,  some  one  expert 
at  locks  and  safes. 

So  Enoch's  charm  worked  wonders  and  he  came  to  believe 
in  the  Swarms  of  Locusts  and  Pests  of  Flies.  And  he  de- 
veloped inventiveness,  under  the  whiplash  of  revengeful  de- 
sire, inventiveness  hitherto  given  over  to  discovering  hidden 
meanings  in  Apocryphal  Books;  so  that,  soon,  Mother  found 
him  too  valuable  a  man  to  risk  in  actual  service  and  kept  him 
about  her  to  give  her  plans  practicality,  to  advise  and  counsel 
the  unskilful,  and,  also,  since  she  found  her  Horde  was  going 
into  mixed  society  to  get  what  was  now  provided  in  her  Attic, 
and  as  mixed  society  contained  informers  and  weaklings,  she 
fitted  up  the  Attic  and  added  Apricott  as  a  lure — the  great 
Apricott,  who  knew  more  about  safes  and  locks  than  the  men 
who  made  them. 

His  were  the  morose  eyes,  from  behind  the  huge  door  and 
through  a  Judas-hole,  that  regarded  Sonetchka  and  became 
reassuring,  nay,  grimly  joyful  when  turned  in  the  other  direc- 
tion. Old  Mitt-and-a-Half  had  regretted  the  desertion  of  so 
clever  a  thief  as  little  Sonia — the  Pest  of  Flies  had  lost  one 
of  its  sharpest  Stingers,  the  Scourge  of  Locusts  one  of  its 
greediest  Devourers.  .  .  .  Therefore  when  he  announced 
her  return  to  her  brother  Flies  and  Locusts  it  was  with  a 
geniality  alien  to  his  cloudy  creed. 

Two  men  leaped  up  from  recumbent  positions,  one  to  re- 


126 r  God's  Man 

slime  his  hitherto  discarded  trousers.  The  room  held  nean> 
a  dozen  others,  in  groups  of  twos  and  threes,  all  reclining 
around  little  lamps  set  on  filigreed  trays. 

The  two  men  to  rise  were,  strictly  speaking,  not  men  at 
all — only  the  Phony  Kid  and  his  companion,  Pink,  the  Cagey. 
The  latter,  reconsidering,  resumed  his  attitude  of  Oriental 
ease,  taking  on  in  addition  an  air  of  studious  indifference. 
What,  after  all,  did  the  arrival  of  any  mere  "gun  moll,"  no 
matter  how  proficient  in  her  profession  or  attractive  in  her 
person,  mean  in  his  young  life,  he  would  like  to  know?  And 
as  Sonia  entered  he  seemed  to  be  slumbering. 

V.  THE  CAGEY  KID  "TURNS  SQUARE" 

Sonia  was  no  stranger  here;  any  possible  existing  doubts 
were  banished  by  the  sight  of  the  Phony  Kid  catching  both 
her  small  hands,  drawing  her  to  him  despite  her  struggling, 
until  severely  smacked  for  it.  "Fresh  thing,"  she  said,  "  Jow 
are  you,  Beau — "  and  shook  hands  with  the  Phony  one;  also 
with  Apricott  and  the  others,  lazy  of  greeting  but  glad  to  see 
her.  Mostly  they  were  a  young  lot;  "Bouge"  and  "Noir," 
Sally  Surrey's  assistants  in  bank-breaking  (Sally  was  not 
there),  hardly  older  than  the  two  Kids;  Edwin  Moneypenny^s 
"Canary"  boys — so  called  because  they  frequented  that  fash- 
ionable restaurant  and  seemed  at  home  there.  Only  two  had 
passed  thirty — Moneypenny  himself,  a  distinguished-looking, 
elderly  gentleman,  with  French  moustachios  and  a  Southern 
Colonel's  goatee;  and  Doctor  "Tack,"  a  burly  Bavarian,  with 
Heidelberg  scars.  ...  It  was  apparent  from  their  greet- 
ings, even  Hastings,  the  proscribed  outlaw,  being  genial,  that 
the  Little  One  enjoyed  their  trust  and  good  will. 

But,  after  the  habit  of  those  who  use  opium,  taking  little 
general  interest  in  womenkind,  having  greeted  her,  they  re- 
sumed their  even  low-toned  conversation,  no  voice  being 
raised  for  fear  of  those  who  lay  on  the  next  bunk.  It  was  an 
interesting  scene,  holding  something  of  the  fascination  of  the 


Sons  of  Subterranea  127 

East;  the  dim  lanterns  swinging  high  among  the  rafters  seen 
through  clouds  of  drifting  heavy  smoke,  faces  here  and  there 
limned  by  the  lamps — little  rafts  of  light  on  a  sea  of  smoky 
darkness. 

"You  want  I  should  cook  for  you  ?"  asked  Sonia,  returning 
from  her  visiting.  Having  no  corsets  to  incommode  her,  she 
kicked  off  her  tiny  pumps  and  climbed  to  the  right  side  of  the 
bunk,  which  Beau  abandoned  in  her  favor,  lying  down  on 
the  other  side,  his  head  pillowed  on  Pink's  hip.  Pink  lay 
just  across  from  Sonia,  so  that,  when  she  looked  up,  their 
eyes  met.  A  pile  of  pillows,  common  to  both  boys,  raised 
their  heads  above  the  lamp's  level. 

Sonia,  with  a  woman's  dainty  deftness  in  small  matters, 
dug  out  the  chocolate-colored  opium  from  a  little  white  jar, 
a  "toey,"  cooking  it  over  a  steady  flame  of  peanut-oil.  It 
bubbled  and  squeaked  and  gave  out  a  smell  like  toasting  choco- 
late. Then  she  took  up  the  long  bamboo  pipe,  to  which, 
midway  along  its  length,  a  stone  bowl  was  attached;  in  this 
she  finished  her  complicated  "cooking,"  kneading  the  sticky 
mass  with  a  long  steel  needle,  a  "yen-hok."  It  changed  from 
golden  to  dark  brown,  as  the  poisonous  substances  escaped  in 
greasy  gases  and  vaporous  moisture;  and  she  broke  it  into- 
"pills"  the  size  of  small  peas,  reheated  one  of  them,  rolled  it 
into  conical  shape  and  thrust  it  into  the  little  round  hole  in 
the  center  of  the  bowl.  It  flattened.  Quickly  she  extracted 
and  re-rolled  it  into  a  tight  little  cylinder.  This,  again  re- 
heated and  attached  to  the  little  hole,  was  ready  for  con- 
sumption. 

She  reversed  the  pipe,  handing  it  to  Beau,  so  that  the  little 
cylinder  was  directly  above  the  flame.  Beau  put  the  mouth- 
piece to  his  lips  and  the  opium,  disintegrating  into  semi- 
liquid  form  again,  leaped  through  the  little  hole,  becoming 
thick  blue  smoke,  as  he  exhaled  it  in  thin  lacy  clouds  that 
drifted  upward  to  add  atmosphere  to  their  private  solar  sys- 
tem, of  which  the  lanterns  were  twin  suns.  Sonetchka  took 
back  the  pipe,  and,  telling  of  her  little  white  dog  and  her  new 


128  God's  Man 

resolve,  prepared  a  second  pill,  which  also  she  handed  to 
Beau,  a  procedure  that  aroused  the  Cagey  one's  ire. 

"Say :  I'm  just  as  welcome  here  as  I  would  he  in  the  street : 
don't  miss  one  if  you  can — that  the  idea  ?"  he  asked.  "That's 
what  you  get  for  letting  a  skirt  lay  around  with  you,  anyway. 
Everything  harmonious — then — bingo ! — in  drops  a  dame  and 
everything^  crabbed.  That's  why  I  let  Lily  King  out.  Jeal- 
ousy? She  wrote  the  book.  Tough  habit  in  a  woman.  Why 
if  I  so  much  as  said  there  was  a  good-looking  woman  on  a 
moving-picture  screen  .  .  .  Hey ! — smoke  that  pill,,  Beau, 
and  I'll  wear  out  the  stem  on  your  nut.  .  .  ." 

He  snatched  away  the  pipe  as  it  went  to  his  friend  for  the 
third  time,  snatching  also  the  cooking-needle  and  smoking 
without  assistance.  "You'll  lie  over  with  your  friend,  Miss 
Sonia  Americanski  Russki  Jealousoscovitch,  if  you  don't  take 
off  your  blinders  and  notice  little  Pink's  among  those  present 
—see?" 

Sonetchka  gave  him  a  cool  impersonal  nod  as  though  this 
speech  first  made  her  aware  of  his  presence.  Really,  the 
Cagey  Kid  commanded  her  intense  admiration,  but  he  had  a 
reputation  for  holding  women  lightly  because  of  his  repeated 
successes,  and  she  had  sworn  her  admiration  of  him  should 
never  be  revealed. 

"I  had  a  tumble,  myself,"  he  said,  handing  back  the  pipe 
and  referring  to  her  narrow  escape.  "I  was  hustling  the 
match  with  Joe  Deane,  and  we  took  a  big  Swede  from  Min- 
neapolis for  the  works.  Well,  when  I  pull  the  finish  on  him 
about  going  back  after  the  fellow  who  skinned  us,  it  sounds 
pretty  good  to  him,  but  he  don't  tip  me — only  follows  in  case  I 
need  assistance,  see? — me  not  jerry.  Well,  when  I  meet  Joe, 
at  Cleary's  corner,  Joe  spots  the  Swede  corning,  and  offices 
me  to  pull  some  rough  stuff.  So  I  starts  calling  him  divers 
kinds  of  sons-of-what-you-call-'ems,  and  then  we  sparred  for  a 
clinch.  At  which  the  Swede  unloads  a  cannon,  and  gits  Joe 
in  the  currency  kick.  A  big  green  harness-bull  sees  the  shoot- 
ing and  drops  off'n  a  passing  short  and,  jest  my  luck,  mitts 


Sons  of  Subterranea  129 

me,  while  I'm  trying  to  help  Joe  with  his  game  leg.  The 
Swede  beats  it,  and  the  big  lying  copper's  gotta  make  good 
for  the  pinch,  so  he  swears  he  seen  me  pull  the  gat.  That 
gets  me  held  over  night  without  bail,  Joe  to  the  hospital ;  and, 
next  morning,  I'm  in  the  line-up  and  the  Chief  tells  the  dicks 
to  pick  me  up  anywheres  they  see  me  loitering  and  jest  bring 
me  in  on  suspicion.  Course  I  let  Mother  know  and  she  had 
a  mouthpiece  there  with  the  fall  money;  and  he  passed  the 
word  to  Fourteenth  Street  to  forgit  the  case,  but  the  Chief 
can't  call  these  coppers  up  in  a  body  and  tell  them  to  forgit 
it — too  many  dicks  stooling  for  the  D.  A.  So,  with  a  lot  of 
heavy-headed  goose-feet  on  my  trail,  I'm  gunna  lay  low  till 
they  forget  my  mug." 

"Wat  you  do  ?"  asked  Sonetchka,  forgetting  her  recent  in- 
difference. 

"He's  got  a  job  playing  planner  in  the  new  room  they're 
opening  up-stairs  at  Sydenham's  next  Monday  night,"  said 
Beau  eagerly,  Pink  being  occupied.  "You  know  how  nuts  all 
these  society  skirts  is  about  honkatonk  stuff,  don't  you? — 
cabarets,  they  call  'em — turkey-trots  and  todolos  and  grizzly- 
bears  and  tangos.  Pink  starts  to  bang  the  box  the  other  night 
in  deary's,  and  one  of  the  head  fellows  at  Sydenham's  hap- 
pened to  drop  in,  and  said  Pink's  playing  was  the  darb — jest 
the  local-color  touch  they  needed.  .  .  ." 

Pink,  finishing  his  pill,  broke  in  apologizing  for  considering 
any  form  of  employment  sanctioned  by  the  law:  "Course,  I 
didn't  think  of  taking  it,  then,  but  after  I  got  this  tumble — " 

"You  oughta  thank  your  rabbit's  foot,"  said  the  Phony  Kid, 
who  was  always  willing  to  sacrifice  the  spectacular  for  the 
easy :  "Nothing  to  do  but  put  on  the  thirteen-and-the-odd  and 
set  around  with  the  other  performers,  all  dolled  up  like  reg- 
ular spenders  and  have  your  chuck  and  your  drinks  on  the 
house  and  get  paid  for  it,  while  it's  costing  the  suckers  the 
entire  B.  R.  Wish  I  could  glom  a  dame  who  could  dance. 
I'd  get  a  job  there,  myself — I  wrote  the  book  about  trotting 
when  it  wasn't  no  farther  north  than  Chatham  Square." 


130  God's  Man 

"Wat  about  me?"  asked  Sonia  eagerly.  "Me — I  am  a 
danseuse  extraordinaire.  Zat  is  my  meedle  name.  I  dance 
wiz  you,  Beau,  zen  some  managers  see  us  and  give  us  somesing 
beeg.  Eh?" 

"Some  idea,"  said  Pink  approvingly.  "You  can  git  the  job 
all  right.  They  still  want  some  rough  honkatonk  workers 
who  kin  wear  evening  clothes.  And  a  guy  to  wear  a  powdered 
wig  and  silk  pants  and  open  the  doors,  and  a  telephone-girl — 
a  good-looker.  The  old  geezer  that  hired  me  told  me  so  the 
other  night.  I  told  Beau  to  hunt  up  a  skirt  before,  but  you 
know  these  hop-heads — always  putting  things  off — " 

"Well,  I  ain't  on  the  blacklist  like  you,  sucker,"  said  Beau 
shortly.  "I  kin  still  hustle.  I  won't  starve  if  I  don't  grab 
the  job.  But  if  Sonny  here  means  business — " 

"Don't  never  trust  no  dame  for  nothing,"  said  Pink  sen- 
tentiously.  "If  she  happens  to  wake  up  wrongside  Monda' 
morning,  she'd  put  a  shieve  into  you  just  for  amusement. 
That's  why  I  canned  Blonde  Aileen.  She  wasn't  fit  for  a  dog 
to  associate  with  in  the  morning." 

"You  an'  your  'ussies,"  said  Sonetchka  fiercely,  again  trans- 
ferring her  attentions  exclusively  to  Beau,  less  endowed  with 
a  lurid  past.  "You  come  weez  me  to  my  'otel,"  she  said  to 
him,  "an*  you  can  'are  somesing  I  kep'  for  you.  Eet  will  be 
'andy  w*en  you  wear  your  dress-suit — "  Eeally,  she  had  been 
keeping  this  article,  a  fur-coat,  for  Pink;  but  his  auto- 
biographical references  always  enraged  her,  a  fact  that  both- 
ered Pink  not  at  all,  for  he  had  found  the  surest  way  to  win 
new  girls  was  to  have  been  greatly  desired  of  others  in  the 
past. 

"Hetty  Hamilton,  too,"  he  went  on,  referring  to  one  whose 
name  now  blazed  high  over  vaudeville  theaters :  who  had  been 
carried  to  popularity  by  the  new  craze  for  dances  once  con- 
fined to  the  underworld ;  "she  jest  worried  me  to  death,  that 
Hamilton.  I  had  to  swing  on  her  right  from  my  heel  every 
two  or  three  days.  No  other  way  of  living  with  her,  there 
wasn't.  Every  now  and  then  she  jest  woke  up,  saying  to  her- 


Sons  of  Subterranea  131 

self:  'This  is  the  day  I'll  have  a  good  time  making  him  feel 
miserable:'  and  she'd  contradict  me  even  if  I  said  burning 
beings  had  two  legs  and  two  arms  and  five  fingers  and  five 
toes.  'Some  haven't/  she'd  say,  jest  as  though  they  was  fash- 
ions in  such  things :  'some  have  more,  some  have  less.  You 
don't  know  everything/  Honest !  And  if  I  let  her  get  away 
with  that  and  then  I  happened  to  remark:  'Ain't  it  funny 
how  everybody  has  to  die  some  day,  and  nobody  ever  comes 
back* —  jest  something  to  make  conversation  and  get  her  out 
of  her  sulks — why,  she'd  up  and  say :  'Everybody  don't !'  'Don't 
what?'  I'd  say.  'Don't  die,'  she'd  say.  'Don't  talk  foolish,' 
I'd  say.  'Who's  talking  foolish,'  she'd  say;  'no  more  foolish 
than  you.  You  don't  know  everything.'  'Listen,  broad,'  I'd 
say,  then,  'you  got  your  roasting  clothes  on  to-day  and  you 
better  take  'em  off  quick  or  I'll  slam  you  one  in  the  kisser, 
see'— ^cause  burning  nature  has  its  limits.  'You  would,'  she'd 
say:  'I'd  like  to  see  the  man  'ud  lay  a  finger  on  me — '  And 
no  matter  how  many  times  I  done  it,  she'd  pull  the  same  thing 
next  time,— 'I'd  jest  like  to  see  the  fellow  that  would—'  that's 
all  she'd  say,  jest  aching  for  it,  and  if  she  didn't  get  it  then 
she'd  go  on,  nasty.  'He  wouldn't  live  long  to  tell  people  about 
it,'  she'd  say.  'What  would  you  do  ?'  I'd  say,  nasty  too,  then. 
'I'd  put  powdered  glass  in  his  beer,  that's  what  I'd  do,'  she'd 
say:  'I'd  wait  till  he  fell  asleep  and  I'd  cut  his  heart  out, 
that's  what  I'd  do.  I'd—'  But  by  that  time,  I'd  V  done  it, 
and  I'd  start  packing  my  things.  Jest  about  the  time  I  got 
'em  all  packed,  she'd  come  over  and  put  her  arms  around  me 
and  cry  and  ask  was  her  papa  goin'  to  leave  his  poor  little 
thing  jest  because  she  had  a  headache  and  felt  bad — " 

"Softy,"  said  the  infuriated  Sonia,  'Vat  womans !  Those 
'ussies.  I'd  like  to  see  ze  man  w*at  would  strike  me — " 

"That's  what  they  all  say,"  returned  Pink  wearily.  "If 
horses  ran  to  form  like  women,  Beau,  I'd  be  a  regular  Eocke- 
feller.  And  then  when  they  get  it  they  say:  *Well,  you 
wouldn't  dare  do  it  again.'  And  when  you  do,  they  say :  'I'd 
like  to  see  some  other  man  do  what  you  did.'  And  that's  the 


132  God's  Man 

way  they  go.  While,  really,  they're  as  proud  as  Punch.  I  re- 
member one  day,  I  give  Edna  Garry  an  eye  like  a  sunset,  red, 
green  and  yellow.  And  when  she  went  into  the  Owl  to  have 
the  drug-clerk  paint  it  and  he  says :  'What's  the  matter,  run 
into  the  elevator-shaft?'  she  says,  'Huh!  I  guess  not!  The 
sweetest  thing  in  the  world  give  me  that.'  He  told  me — " 

"Oh,  you  make  me  seeck,"  said  Sonia  excitedly.  "You  never 
'ave  no  nice  womans.  All  'ussies.  Zaf  s  nuzzing  w*at  zey 
say—" 

"That's  what  they  all  say  about  one  another,  too,"  said  Pink 
in  a  bored  tone.  "Lily'd  always  say  Blonde  Aileen  was  a 
tramp,  and  Aileen  said  Hetty  was  a  tramp,  and  Edna  said 
Aileen  was  a — well,  I  won't  use  her  exact  words,  and  now 
Sonia  says  Edna  was  a  hussy.  That's  the  way  it  goes." 

"Doan'  you  put  me  een  weez  your  tramps,"  cried  Sonia  in 
irate  emotional  tones.  "Doan'  you  zeenk,  Meester  Cagey  Keed, 
zat  Sonia  fall  for  you.  No.  Net.  Not  one  time.  Jus'  like 
zat.  Nevar.  I  'ate  you." 

"I'll  get  you  yet,  though,"  returned  Pink,  smiling  aggra- 
vatingly.  "They  always  start  hating  me.  I  can  tell  the  signs. 
Gee!  I  wonder  why  those  fellas  that  write  books  always  pull 
that  sucker  stuff  about  women  bein'  hard  to  understand.  If 
I  had  a  dollar  for  every  mistake  I've  made  about  woman,  I 
couldn't  buy  the  hair  on  a  Mexican  hairless  dog.  I  on'y  wish 
there  wasn't  nothing  harder  than  telling  what  a  woman  was 
gunna  do  next — that's  all." 

"Well,  'ere's  one  you  can't  tell  nuzzing  about,"  said  Sonia, 
stifling  her  rage. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  can,"  answered  Pink,  "you're  gunna  try  to  make 
me  think  you're  stuck  on  Beau.  What  you're  gunna  give  him 
you  was  saving  for  me.  See  ?  I'm  jerry."  And  he  laughed 
at  her  encrimsoned  face. 

"You — "  spluttered  Sonia,  and  then  was  silent.  An  almost 
unconquerable  desire  to  seize  his  blond  hair  and  pall  it  hard 
lay  hold  of  her.  "Conzeited  sing,"  she  said,  defeated :  "some 
day  you  get  in  lofe  wiz  some  girl  w'at  is  somesing  and  zen 


Sons  of  Subterranea  133 

you  see — she  laugh  at  you.  'Wat — zat,'  she  say,  'zat  funny 
little  mans/  Pooh!  "Ere,  Beau." 

Then  there  was  silence  for  a  long  period;  but  presently 
conversation  along  less  personal  lines  began;  and,  soon,  all 
three  were  discussing  the  possibilities  of  their  new  employ- 
ment. 

"You  kin  grab  .many  a  live  one  dancing  in  cabarets,"  said 
Beau  reminiscently.  "If  they  kin  get  the  head  waiter  to  bring 
'em  over  to  you,  you  kin  bet  the  works  that  guy'll  buy  wine. 
But  jest  you  always  order  a  different  kind  from  his.  Make 
it  two  pints  'stead  of  a  quart :  and  have  yours  f  rappe.  With 
a  towel  around  the  bottle  yours  can't  be  tumbled  for  cider 
fizz.  There's  two-fifty  difference  in  the  price  and  you  git 
it,  see? — to  encourage  business — the  house's  profit's  on  his'n. 
Course  you  don't  have  to  drink  the  stuff :  the  waiter  'ull  fix  it 
go's  you  pour  it  out  when  the  guy  ain't  looking.  I  know  a 
cabaret  girl  pulls  down  ten  dollars  a  night  jest  in  brass-checks. 
And  nothing  wrong:  her  fella  wouldn't  stand  for  it.  You 
don't  half  to  know  the  guy  outside.  Less'n  you  managed  to 
git  a  good  live  one.  Then  you  might  jolly  him  and  make  up  a 
party  after  you're  through.  Show  him  the  sights.  You,  me, 
Pink,  and  some  other  wise  girl,  maybe.  End  up  in  your 
apartment  for  a  little  bridge-party.  By  that  time  he'd  be  so 
lit  up  an  old-time  Mississippi  river-boat  cheater  could  clean 
him,  let  alone  a  couple  smart  young  grifts  like  us.  Split 
it  three  ways,  with  some  luck-money  to  the  other  girl.  .  .  ." 

"Fine,"  approved  Pink.  "You  donno  'any  little  gal  that's 
a  nice  little  gal/  do  you?  Good-looker  with  a  nice  Vice.  Cause 
I  told  you  they  want  one  at  the  telephone  there.  Swell  job 
it  is,  too.  Wear  clothes  jest  like  the  others,  and  the  switch- 
board is  all  done  up  fancy  like  a  cottage  piano — and  the 
booths  made  like  those  old  sit-on  chairs — " 

"See-dan,"  interrupted  Beau,  "see-dan,  sucker,  see-dan  f" 

"Well,  those  old  chairs  women  used  to  ride  in,  two  men 
in  the  shafts — that's  the  way  the  phone  booths  are,  anyhow, 
and,  inside,  all  pink  roses  and  everything.  And  when  you  see 


134  God's  Man 

the  girl  sitting  at  the  switchboard,  and  the  chairs  and  all, 
it's  just  like  you  go  in  some  swell  droring-room,  with  a  society 
dame  sitting  at  her  piano.  You  can't  even  see  it's  a  switch- 
board less'n  you  get  behind  her.  That's  why  they  want  a 
swell  looker.  And  nobody  'ud  dare  slip  her  less'n  a  quarter 
tip :  not  to  an  outfit  like  that.  Better  not  tip  at  all.  Some 
place,  believe  me.  Got  'em  all  skinned.  Why,  the  waiters  has 
to  wear  satin  knee-pants  and  silk  stockings  and  long  chains 
around  their  necks,  jest  like  in  Monte  Carlo,  or  some  such 
joint  .  .  ." 

An  idea  seized  Sonia.  Her  black  eyes  snapping,  she  in- 
terrupted with  a  question  as  to  when  the  place  would  open. 
"Monday,  didn't  I  tell  you?"  replied  Pink,  "and  then  they 
got-" 

"Next  Monday?"  she  broke  in  again:  he  nodded  im- 
patiently. "And  zees  is  Toosda,"  she  ruminated :  "say,  Pink, 
w'at  you  zink? — could  a  girl  learn  w'at  to  do  zere  in  seex 
days?  I  Jave  a  fren,  a  lofely  girl,  Pink — jus'  like  zat — oh, 
lofely,  I  gif  you  my  word.  An'  I  got  some  lofely  drezzes,  too, 
zat  I  boost  from  Vagen'als  an'  Zunday's — beautiful.  I  gif  zem 
to  'er — jus'  'er  size,  zirty-seex.  You  zink  she  learns  to  be 
telephone  girl  in  seex  days — " 

"The  point  is,"  Pink  reminded  her,  "is  she  a  reg'lar  looker  ? 
No  chips,  you  know.  None  of  your  chewing  gum  bradies — " 
Sonia  plunged  indignantly  into  a  defense  of  Velvet  Voice's 
charm.  "Why,  then,"  said  Pink,  "I  guess  that's  the  ducket. 
Fine  for  us,  too,  'cause  she  could  tip  us  off  to  what  she  hears 
over  the  phone,  and  that  might  net  us  many  a  piece  of 
change,  knowing  who's  who  and  what  they've  got  to  lose  if 
anybody  heard  of  them  cutting  up  high- jinks.  It's  always 
useful  in  case  of  a  holler  about  bein'  cheated.  And  it  might 
get  us  a  piece  of  money  for  a  sorta  refined  'badger' — oh, 
nothing  coarse,  nothing  rough,  nothing  not  classy,"  he  pro- 
tested, "that  ain't  our  way,  Beau's  and  mine.  Strictly  class — 
hey,  Mitt-and-a-Half  ?" 

Enoch  Apricott,  who  had  seated  himself  on  a  corner  of  the 


Sons  of  Subterranea:  135 

bunk,  pressed  down  the  tobacco  in  his  workman's  cutty-pipe 
with  the  remaining  fingers  of  his  maimed  hand,  and  grinned 
sourly.  "Hand  it  to  them  the  same  way  they  hand  it  to  us," 
he  said  harshly.  "I've  always  told  you  boys  that.  Go  after 
the  respectable  ones.  They're  the  worst.  The  kind  that  can't 
squeal  because  they're  ornaments  to  some  little  Jersey  com- 
munity. And  around  there  they's  deacons  and  vestrymen. 
.  .  .  The  Lord  drives  the  money-changers  out  of  His 
temple,  His  ways  are  difficult  of  understanding  .  .  ."  He 
often  went  off  into  these  Biblical  paraphrases  seeming  for  the 
moment  to  forget  his  audience  entirely.  "And  go  after  the 
rich  men's  sons,"  he  went  on  savagely,  "the  ones  that  spend 
the  money  they  minted  outa  human  flesh  and  blood.  Sting 
'em.  Sting  'em.  The  Swarms  of  Locusts  and  the  Pests  of 
Flies.  Make  the  Kings  pay  through  the  Princes — that's  the 
law: 'the  sons  of  the  father  .  .  .'" 

Again  he  sat,  staring  abstractedly,  his  pipe-embers  smol- 
dering no  more  darkly  than  his  deeply-set  eyes.  And  then  he 
tapped  Sonia  on  her  thin  little  shoulder. 

"Don't  ever  get  sentimental  over  rich  young  men.  Don't 
feel  sorry  for  taking  their  last  dollar.  Kemember,  you  are 
an  Instrument — "  He  thrust  the  hand  of  the  missing  fingers 
almost  between  her  eyes.  "That  about  paid  for  some  woman's 
champagne  bath.  Take  all  you  can  gei> — give  nothing — make 
'em  pay." 

He  arose  abruptly  and  walked  off  to  his  corner,  to  put  on 
his  iron-bound  spectacles  and  to  work  on  some  improvements 
to  various  burglars'  tools.  Silently  and  swiftly  he  worked, 
except  at  rare  moments,  when  he  would  raise  his  eyes,  sur- 
veying his  gathered  guests,  and  laughing  discordantly.  "The 
Swarm  of  Locusts :  the  Pest  of  Plies,"  he  would  mutter. 

"He's  nuts,"  said  Pink  in  a  low  voice ;  "jest  plain  nuts.  But 
at  that,  he  has  some  good  ideas.  The  business  of  getting  senti- 
mental over  suckers  makes  my  neck  tired.  'I  just  can't  take 
his  last  dollar/  Helen  Darling  used  to  say,  lie's  been  so  good 
to  me/  'Listen,  you  poor  imbecile  broad/  I  used  to  say  to 


136  God's  Man 

her.  'They  don't  mind  taking  our  last  dollar,  do  they,  with 
their  trusts  and  everything?  Course  he's  been  good  to  you, 
'cause  he  wants  to  get  you,'  I'd  say.  'And  when  he  does  get 
you,  he'll  drop  you  any  minute  he  sees  another  dame  he  wants. 
So  you  make  hay  while  the  sun  shines  and  clean  him  for  the 
works.'  But  she  always  was  a  sucker  broad,  she  wouldn't 
listen,  went  to  live  with  him,  told  him  she  loved  him  not  his 
dough,  and  he  canned  her  in  five  months,  and  grabbed  Cleo 
Darcy  who  won't  let  him  in  unless  he's  carrying  part  of  Grif- 
fony's  front  window  in  his  mitt  and  who  keeps  him  waiting 
in  theater  lobbies  while  she  has  dinner  with  her  fella  who 
hasn't  got  a  nickel.  And  yet  the  sucker  is  wild  about 
her  .  .  ."  He  went  on  with  similar  instances  until  Sonia 
interrupted. 

"I  want  that  you  come  weez  me  to  meet  my  fren,"  she  said, 
having  cleaned  the  "toey"  and  risen.  "We  have  dinner  to- 
gezzer,  ze  four  of  us,  hein  ?  Zen  I  dress  her  up  in  zose  clothes 
from  Vagen'als  and  Zunda/s,  an'  we  go  to  zee  ze  restaurant 
man  about  ze  jhob,  jus'  like  zat." 

They  acceded  and  got  into  their  street  attire. 

On  the  following  Monday,  at  the  opening  of  Sydenham's 
"Cafe  de  Paris  Cabaret,"  Annie  Eunice  Chasserton  made  her 
entrance  before  the  footlights  of  Advertisement  Alley. 


CHAPTER    THREE 

HOW  ARNOLD  GOT  OUT  OF  JAIL 
I.  HE  MEETS  NIETZSCHE  IN  MOTLEY 

T  TWO  o'clock  on  the  afternoon 
of  Arnold's  arrest  the  door  to  his 
cell  was  flung  open  and  another 
offender  was  pushed  in  so  vio- 
lently that  he  fell  to  the  floor. 
He  arose,  and  to  Arnold's  aston- 
ishment whistled  cheerfully — a 
peculiar  man  this,  although  out- 
wardly distinguished  chiefly  by 
an  elaborate  jewel  of  a  collar- 
stud,  which  served  as  a  sort  of 
permanent  substitute  for  necktie. 
Its  owner  had  too  young  a  face 
for  his  bald  head  and  his  comfortable  round  paunch;  it  was 
as  though  a  boy's  features  peeped  from  a  casing  of  false-face 
and  padded  body.  His  trousers  were  too  tight  for  his  little 
fat  legs  and  his  ancient  cutaway  coat,  parted  at  the  tails  to 
show  a  patch  in  their  seat,  heightened  their  appearance  to 
riding  breeches. 

Having  surveyed  his  new  quarters  with  the  air  of  one  who 
has  been  shown  into  the  royal  suite  of  a  fashionable  hotel, 
having  nodded  cheerily  to  Arnold  as  to  an  old  friend,  the 
newcomer  fished  into  his  pockets  and  produced  from  a  cigar- 
ette-box the  stump  of  a  cigar,  which  he  thrust  into  a  paper 
holder,  all  the  while  whistling  in  a  shrill  key,  using  his  teeth 
for  cadenza  effects. 


138  God's  Man 

"Oh,  chuck  it,"  groaned  an  English  voice  from  a  near-by 
cell ;  "chuck  it,  will  you  ?" 

The  newcomer  shook  his  head  mournfully.  "Let  a  little 
sunshine  in,  brother,"  he  called  back,  "don't  think  you've  got 
to  be  miserable  'cause  you're  in  jail.  .  .  ." 

Receiving  fierce  remonstrance,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  leaned  back  luxuriously  with  each  puff  of  his  cigar,  eyes 
closed  in  blissful  anticipation,  inhaling  so  deeply  that  very 
little  smoke  was  disgorged.  "Jail's  the  only  place  to  really 
enjoy  a  good  cigar.  You  can  give  your  whole  mind  to  it," 
he  suddenly  confided  in  Arnold.  "A  man  actually  .threw  this 
angel-filled,  Heaven-wrapped  cigar  away  half-smoked.  When 
I  need  good  cigars,"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  as  one  who, 
after  deep  reflection,  is  transmitting  a  matchless  secret,  "I 
go  hang  around  the  Murray  Hill  or  North  Washington  Square 
section — at  tea  time.  It  don't  do  for  gentlemen  to  go  calling 
on  a  lady  armed  to  the  teeth.  So  I  get  a  fifty-cent  smoke 
for  the  price  of  one  of  these  here  paper  holders — a  trey  for  a 
jitney — less'n  two  cents  per  smoke.  They  know  cigars  on 
Murray  Hill.  Fifth  Avenue's  apt  to  take  people's  words — 
too  busy  coining  to  git  educated,  poor  devils." 

Arnold,  head  on  palm  and  slanted  elbow,  stared.  Evi- 
dently, this  oddity  was  not  essaying  humor.  Wondering 
about  him,  Arnold  momentarily  forgot  he  was  a  tragic  figure, 
and  only  sneered  faintly. 

"Not  educated  up  to  the  joys  of  jail,  eh?  Sure,"  returned 
the  newcomer,  the  sneer  unnoticed;  "while  regular  fellows 
are  young  they  have  a  hell  of  a  time  chippy-chasing — glorious 
jags  Saturday  nights  with  the  ladies  down  the  line."  He 
smacked  his  lips  as  one  whose  tongue  was  rolling  delicious 
morsels.  "Those  millionaire  fellows  save,  instead.  The 
other  fellows  learn  about  women  and  whisky  and  good  times — 
they  don't  even  know  the  women  they  married  for  money,  or 
that  could  do  the  housework  and  save.  When  they  get  their 
millions  at  forty  or  fifty  what  use  are  they,  not  knowing  how 
to  enjoy  life?  I'm  sorry  for  'em.  I've  lived  every  second 


How  Arnold  Got  Out  of  Jail     139 

and  I  haven't  done  any  work  to  speak  of  either  except  work  I 
liked/' 

"With  the  result?  .  .  ."  suggested  Arnold  in  gentle 
ellipsis. 

The  other  waited  until  he  had  tranquilly  blown  out  some 
few  final  strands  of  smoke,  then  said  philosophically :  "Well, 
it's  winter.  Jail  in  winter  if  I  ain't  been  lucky  enough  to 
get  down  South  with  the  birds.  .  .  ."  Here  he  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  suggesting  worse  alternatives.  "It  was  to  get 
railroad  fare  to  Mexico  that  I  got  myself  jammed  in  here.  A 
six-er,  I  suppose.  Well,  it'll  be  spring  then.  Saves  going 
South  anyway;  and  I  hate  railroad  traveling.  The  worst  is 
always  the  best  if  you  know  the  answer.  .  .  ." 

In  the  cell  next  door  the  self-appointed  censor  seemed  to 
be  sobbing.  "Just  loves  misery,"  commented  the  censored 
one.  "Tried  to  hang  himself  to  his  cell-door  with  his  neck- 
tie, but  it  broke — so  they  were  saying  up-stairs.  Shows  there's 
some  good  in  cheap  neckties.  .  .  ." 

"You  don't  believe  in  suicide,  then  ?"  asked  Arnold ;  "when 
a  man's  got  nothing  to  live  for  ?"  He  was  regarded  in  aston- 
ishment. 

"Ever  in  the  country  in  springtime?  Trout  just  hopping 
out  of  the  streams  begging  to  be  caught?  Or  summer  nights 
when  watermelons  just  bust  their  bellies  in  the  moonlight  and 
their  natural  protectors  is  asleep?  Or  down  around  the 
marshes  in  the  fall  when  the  ducks  fly  so  low  you  can  hit  'em 
with  a  rock  and  get  a  roast  one,  chestnuts  lying  plentiful  all 
around  on  the  side  ?  Or  along  the  Long  Island  shore,  where 
you  can  unhitch  a  boat  and  sneak  a  lobster  out  of  a  trap  some- 
body's kindly^et  for  you —  ?" 

It  was  Arnold  who  groaned  this  time.  "You're  from  Long 
Island?"  asked  the  motley  man.  "Well,  I  needn't  say  any 
more  about  that  lobster  stuff;  you  know.  .  .  .  I've  trav- 
eled into  every  country  in  the  world,  son,  and  I  ain't  et  haff 
the  good  things  yet,  nor  drunk  half  the  different  brews  nor 
won't  neither,  even  if  I  had  a  beard  I  could  use  for  a  fishing- 


140  God's  Man 

line.  Say,  that  just  makes  me  sick — a  man  killing  himself 
when  he's  at  an  age  when  he  ain't  even  et  all  the  food  of  his 
own  country  let  alone  others.  And  what  fur?  "Women? 
Always  a  dozen  to  every  man — a  hundred  to  every  regular 
guy.  Broke?  Think  of  the  new  things  you  get  to  eat  and 
drink  chasin'  around  new  countries  trying  to  get  solvent 
again.  And  the  different  kinds  of  women.  .  .  .  Sui- 
cide? Just  plain  anarchy  of  the  brain-box.  Change  your 
woman,  change  your  job.  Change  your  country.  Change 
your  luck.  But  don't  try  changing  your  life  until  you  know 
what  you're  drawing  to.  It's  bum  poker." 

Arnold  laughed,  rose,  stretched  himself,  and  as  he  came 
out  of  his  dark  corner  surveyed  his  cell-mate  plainly  for  the 
first  time,  the  light  from  the  outside  corridor  falling  full  on 
their  faces.  Both  immediately  began  to  stare,  began  those 
instinctive  efforts  of  recollection  semi-familiar  features  in- 
voluntarily impel.  And  Arnold  remembered.  A  few  years 
before — Christmas  holidays — a  man  minding  fences  and  pig 
pens  in  a  manner  so  desultory  and  deliberate  that  two  fingers 
were  frost-bitten;  the  work  he  was  to  have  done,  had  not  the 
frost-bite  intervened,  a  return  for  Christmas  cheer  and  an 
old  overcoat.  He  had  grown  stouter  since  then  and  he  no 
longer  wore  the  parson's  overcoat.  Arnold  wondered  now 
if  there  had  ever  been  a  frost-bite,  for  this  was  the  sort  of 
man  to  lie  awake  planning  how  to  escape  any  obligations  that 
involved  labor.  But  how  had  he  made  his  fingers  seem 
purply  blue  ? 

"You  know  me?"  asked  the  suspected  one.  '"Let's  see  you 
full  face,  son;"  and,  seeing  it,  guffawed  loudly,  heightening 
Arnold's  wonder  as  to  how  the  deceiving  color  had  been 
achieved. 

"Oh,  stow  it,"  groaned  their  neighbor  plaintively. 

"He  loves  it,  loves  it,  goodness  how  he  loves  it,"  reflected  Mr. 
Quinn,  for  it  was  by  that  name  he  introduced  himself  to  Ar- 
nold, after  explaining  his  curiosity  concerning  the  frost-bite 
stage-effect  by  offering  to  instruct  him  with  a  piece  of  cor- 


How  Arnold  Got  Out  of  Jail     141 

rugated  cord  and  any  one  of  Arnold's  fingers.  Arnold  took 
his  word  for  it. 

"Quinn — Harley  Quinn — christened  Harvey  but  with  one 
little  change  of  letter,  now  much  more  suitable/'  Mr.  Quinn 
continued.  "And  so  you're  in  jail."  He  chuckled,  forgot  the 
lover  of  misery,  and  whistled  again.  "And  that's  very  apt, 
too/'  he  added  after  a  few  bars.  "'This  is  no  place  for  a 
minister's  son.'"  He  added  a  few  bars  different  but  equally 
execrable.  "  'Breaking  the  News  to  Father*  is  that  one,"  he 
explained.  "Sad  little  bit  but  it's  got  to  be  done,  eh?" 

"No,"  said  Arnold  shortly;  "do  me  a  favor  and  forget  all 
about  Long  Island.  I  don't  intend  my  family  name  to  be 
disgraced — " 

Mr.  Quinn  lay  back,  still  chuckling.  "You  might  come 
right  out  of  a  book  with  that  speech,"  he  averred.  "And  Con- 
gressman Waldemar  a  neighbor  of  yours  ? — I  see  his  son  over 
to  your  house  that  day,  don't  I  ? — Though  I  don't  know  then 
who  he  is,  not  until  I  do  some  odd  jobs  over  to  his  dad's  place. 
.  .  .  My  fingers  got  well  down  in  the  valley: — different 
air — and  what  leavings  from  the  dinners! — patey-boy-grass 
and  mushrooms  and — good  God  lemme  forget  it  now.  .  .  . 
I  see  that  Waldemar  boy  plenty  times  when  I'm  opening  cab- 
doors  up  around  Times  Square.  Some  spender  he  is.  I'd 
like  to  eat  where  he  does.  Ain't  you  let  him  know  ?" 

Arnold  maintained  a  sullen  silence.  Since  this  man  had 
come  into  the  cell,  all  tragedy  had  fled.  Face  downward  on 
the  plank,  unjustly  persecuted  and  broken  of  spirit,  the  last 
of  the  L'Hommedieus  had  at  least  the  gloomy  satisfaction  of 
knowing  he  was  the  principal  figure  in  a  great  tragedy :  could 
picture  himself  condemned — still  unjustly — serving  his  term 
a  silent  saturnine  figure  wrapped  in  impenetrable  mystery :  for 
the  end  of  his  term  visiting  Monte  Cristo  vengeances  on  his 
persecutors.  Now,  in  the  astonished  question  of  the  motley 
man's — "Ain't  you  let  him  know" — Arnold  realized  his  anach- 
ronistic conduct.  This  was  a  game  played  with  marked  cards ; 
the  more  you  marked  and  could  use  the  greater  your  sue- 


142  God's  Man 

cess.  What  else  had  Mr.  Krafft's  client  used  to  escape  paying 
his  debt  for  Hans  Chasserton's  lost  wits:  to  protect  himself 
from  the  righteous  assaults  of  wronged  men :  John  Waldemar 
to  escape  notoriety  through  Bobbie's  little  supper  party  ?  His 
own  friendship  for  Hugo  had  marked  that  card  and  saved 
Waldemar  Senior  the  election. 

"Marked  cards!"  he  said  aloud,  "that's  about  what  this 
whole  game  is,  isn't  it  ?  With  a  pull,  I  can  get  out.  Without 
one,  you  can  stay  in.  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Quinn  chuckled.  "That's  the  book  way  of  putting  it," 
he  agreed:  "but  there's  not  much  fun  about  'marked  cards' 
and  there's  a  whole  lot  of  fun  about  life  ...  a  regular 
Bowery  mellerdram  when  you're  young,  but  a  burlesque-show 
after  you've  blown  the  froth  off  the  beer.  .  .  .  Have  you 
got  two  dollars  ?"  he  interpolated  suddenly. 

Seeing  from  Arnold's  face  that  he  had,  he  set  up  an  im- 
mediate loud  bawling,  which  was  answered,  louder,  as  the 
hall  man  hurried  down  swearing.  Hypnotized  by  the  man's 
assertion,  Arnold,  by  the  time  the  official  appeared,  had  en- 
abled Mr.  Quinn  to  thrust  one  dollar  in  his  hand. 

"You  get  Mr.  Waldemar — young  Mr.  Waldemar — Congress- 
man Waldemar's  son — on  the  phone/'  said  Quinn  importantly. 
"He's  probably  at  his  office — the  Waldemar  office — you'll  find 
it  in  the  phone  book — and  if  you  hurry,  you'll  get  the  other 
caser."  He  held  up  the  second  bill  tantalizingly.  "One  of 
his  best  friends  in  trouble  down  here — say — and  he's  to  come 
hoppin' — one  of  his  best  friends,  don't  forget.  No  names — " 

"Marked  cards  again?"  asked  Arnold  gloomily,  remember- 
ing the  push  and  the  harshness  of  the  now  almost  servile  hur- 
rying jailer. 

"Value  received,"  corrected  Mr.  Quinn :  "do  men  work  for 
wages  or  for  love  ?  Maybe  they  oughta  work  for  love ;  but — 
they  don't.  .  .  .  That's  the  only  game:  value  received. 
The  world's  always  trying  to  make  you  give  'value  received'; 
your  part's  to  make  'em  think  they  got  it." 

"Not  value  received.  Double    and    treble    and    quadruple 


How  Arnold  Got  Out  of  Jail     143 

value/'  returned  Arnold.  "And  for  that,  they — a  few  men 
who've  got  the  game  cornered — they  kindly  permit  you  to 
live  and  work  for  them — " 

"That's  where  your  smartness  comes  in,"  returned  Mr. 
Quinn,  chuckling.  "Don't  work  unless  you  get  paid  what's 
right.  They  can't  make  you.  There's  the  open  country,  so 
mild  you  can  sleep  outdoors  even  up  here  six  months  in  the 
year;  and  then  you  do  a  little  work  and  get  a  ticket  South  for 
the  other  six.  Food?  There's  always  food  at  farmhouses 
for  a  Union  veteran  with  his  missing  arm  slipped  under  his 
undershirt,  due  to  a  Rebel  cannon-ball — or  for  a  little  wood- 
chopping  if  you  want  a  bed  and  breakfast  when  the  weather's 
nasty — or  there's  the  barn.  Steady  honest  work — poor  but 
proud? — you  can  have  my  part  of  it — cheerful.  Meanwhile 
look  around  you  for  a  rough  chance  that's  worth  risking  seven 
years  in  an  itchy  gray  suit.  I've  had  thousands  in  my  time 
out  of  country  post-offices.  Blew  'em  in  on  booze  and  women, 
but  had  a  great  time  while  it  lasted.  Course  they  nail  you 
sometimes :  like  this  time  and  for  small  potatoes  too,  but 
that's  the  part  of  the  game  'at  makes  things  lively.  You're 
dead  right  about  it  being  a  game;  the  greatest  in  the  world. 
Trouble  with  most  people,  they  think  it's  either  a  picnic  or  a 
funeral.  Take  those  titmice  down  in  the  ghettos  and  slums. 
Their  own  fault  for  staying  there.  Let  'em  have  sense  enough 
to  see  nobody  can  make  'em  stay,  nobody  can  make  'em  work. 
Take  to  the  road — be  hoboes,  yeggs,  anything  but  being  so 
poor  and  so  proud  and  so  honest  they  spend  all  their  lives 
working  hard  for  shed  and  doughnut  money.  .  .  .  And 
if  the  farmers  won't  give  'em  meals,  loot  the  henhouses  and 
the  orchards  and  truck-gardens;  get  together  in  a  bunch  and 
hold  up  some  small  village — or,  if  they  must  be  city-folk, 
then  when  they're  out  of  a  job,  heave  a  brick  through  a  win- 
dow and  say :  'I  did  it.  Now  put  me  in  jail  and  feed  and  clothe 
me.'  That's  what  I  do  when  things  are  awful  tough;  and  if 
everybody  was  like  me,  the  big  gees  who're  running  the  game 
'ud  soon  get  sore  on  building  jails  and  supporting  half  the 


144  God's  Man 

population  in  'em,  and  they'd  make  it  more  tempting-like 
for  them  to  work — they'd  have  to  give  'em  something  better 
than  the  minimum  dough  and  the  maximum  sweat.  Cause 
the  big  gees  'ud  have  to  support  their  families  if  they  didn't. 
.  .  .  People's  own  fault  for  being  titmice.  'Poor  but  re- 
spectable;' 'work  their  fingers  to  the  bone  sooner'n  go  to  the 
workhouse/  'sooner  die  than  go  to  jail.'  All  right.  Such 
saps  deserve  all  they  get — no  sympathy  coming.  They  won't 
learn  the  game,  so  they  gotta  be  taught.  Then  they  all  start 
at  once.  The}r're  learning  now — fast.  More  young  fellows 
going  in  for  being  yeggs  and  grafters,  more  girls  going  on  the 
town — all  good  business."  He  chuckled  and  licked  his  lips. 
"We'll  have  one  of  those  revolutions  here,  soon.  Glory  be ! — 
I  only  hope  I'm  alive  for  it.  That  'ud  be  worth  living  for.  Ha ! 
Ha !"  He  went  off  into  fits  of  laughter.  "In  the  shuffle  when 
the  present  bosses  lose  their  jobs — and  their  heads — I  might 
grab  one  of  their  jobs  myself.  I  know  how  to  talk  biggity 
and  that's  the  main  thing  with  the  mob.  I  can  see  'ern  now 
knockin'  casks  of  fine  old  wines  open  with  axes  up  there  on 
Fifth  Avenue,  sitting  with  their  arms  around  swell  women's 
waists  after  they've  croaked  the  women's  husbands — and  lis- 
tening to  me  talk  by  torchlight.  Me  with  the  swellest  lady 
of  the  lot.  Can't  you  see  her  ?" 

His  face  had  lit  up  with  such  sensuous  pleasure  that  Arnold 
turned  away  in  disgust ;  yet,  looking  again,  he  saw  it  was  only 
the  sensuousness  of  the  wild  animal;  the  man's  rotund  face 
had  no  evil  in  it.  This  was  his  conception  of  the  game.  He 
did  not  complain  of  the  thorns,  therefore  why  should  he  not 
have  the  roses  ?  ...  It  was  the  face  of  a  Faun,  a  Satyr, 
a  reversion  to  Phallic  days. 

"So  that's  your  idea,"  he  said  finally,  forcing  the  recalci- 
trant disgust.  "ISTo  love  for  your  fellow  men — " 

"No  bosh,"  returned  Mr.  Quinn.  "The  game  always  has 
been  played  that  way,  it's  being  played  that  way  now.  Any 
common  girl  that's  extra  pretty,  the  bosses  get,  nowadays, 
don't  they  ?  Well,  just  turn  the  tables  on  'em.  That's  fair, 


How  Arnold  Got  Out  of  Jail     145 

eh?    It  ought  to  happened  long  ago  if  the  titmice  had  any 
get  up  and  go  about  ?em." 

II.    JUSTICE  FLARRITY'S  COURT 

He  ceased  abruptly  at  the  sound  of  many  footsteps;  in 
another  minute,  he,  Arnold,  the  young  Englishman  next  door, 
various  other  cell-mates,  had  been  pushed  up-stairs  into  a  long 
low  room  where  stood  a  camera,  a  man  behind  it. 

"Here,  you!"  said  one  of  the  plain  clothes  men  in  charge, 
pushing  forward  the  Englishman  who,  thoroughly  miserable, 
sat  and  stood,  in  a  dull  apathetic  daze  while  photographs  (to 
be  labeled  "suspect"  until  the  prisoner  should  be  convicted 
and  more  comprehensively  photographed  under  the  Bertillon 
system)  were  made  .  .  .  the  other  men  also,  until  it  came 
to  the  turn  of  Quinn,  who  protested  mightily,  speaking  of  a 
citizen's  rights. 

"Say — you  bum,"  shouted  the  burliest  of  the  policemen, 
and  buffeted  him,  staggering,  into  a  chair.  Quinn  rose  im- 
mediately, turning  his  back  on  the  machine  and  facing  the 
man  who  had  struck  him,  surveyed  him  steadily,  searchingly. 

"I'll  get  you  some  day  for  that,"  he  said,  then  to  Arnold : 
"They've  got  no  right  to  make  us  guilty.  We're  innocent  till 
a  judge  and  jury  decide.  I  ain't  going  to  have  a  picture 
hounding  me  all  over  the  earth.  Not  me." 

"Nor  I,"  said  Arnold,  his  heart  beating  high,  his  breath 
coming  short.  "Let's  see  you  make  us,"  he  added  boldly. 

"I  told  you,"  said  Kirstenbaum,  reminded  of  his  apple-lump 
and  feeling  it  solicitously — he  and  Wiley  were  there  with  the 
others :  "I  told  you,  dangerous  guy.  .  .  .  I'll  fix  you,  mis- 
ter, when  you  come  up  before  the  Judge,"  he  added  fiercely, 
taking  a  stride  toward  Arnold.  "I  guess  these  'ull  look  none 
too  well  anyhow — "  He  snapped  a  pair  of  steel  handcuffs  on 
Arnold's  wrists — in  that  moment  and  position,  the  photogra- 
pher snapped  him. 

"How  do  you  like  that?"  asked  Wiley,  palm  out,  pushing 


146  God's  Man 

Arnold's  head  against  the  wall ;  "you  tramp,  you  bum.  I  on'y 
wish  I  had  you  alone  in  a  cell  for  one  minute.  .  .  ."  Arnold 
stumbled  under  his  pushes  and  would  have  lashed  out  savagely 
with  his  boot-toe,  had  not  Quinn  restrained  him. 

"They're  looking  for  that  to  beat  you  up  and  say  it  was 
self-defense,"  he  warned.  His  own  captor  scowled. 

"Go  on,  you/'  he  said,  digging  at  him  with  his  elbow  until 
Quinn  stumbled  too.  This  detective  carried  tangible  evidence 
against  him,  various  tools  with  which  Quinn  had,  at  the  insti- 
gation of  a  cafe  keeper,  endeavored  to  adjust  the  meter  of  a 
beer-pump,  so  that  the  great  corporation  supplying  electricity 
would  be  mulcted  of  half  profits.  These  exhibits  he  thrust 
beneath  the  Quinnian  nose  when  the  party  was  seated  in  the 
prison  omnibus,  adding  vindictive  prophecies  as  to  their  "send- 
ing up"  powers. 

"Not  at  all,"  returned  Mr.  Quinn  with  an  air  of  great 
purity:  "the  pump  was  out  of  whack.  Some  lawless  indi- 
vidual had  done  just  that  shocking  thing  you  refer  to,  and  7 
was  trying  to  undo  his  villainy.  The  new  owner  of  that  cafe 
is  an  honest  man — he's  too  stupid  to  be  anything  else,"  he 
added  with  a  grin.  The  pale  young  Englishman  stared  at 
him  sadly. 

"Don't  say  that,  my  dear  fellow,"  he  urged;  "I  wish  I'd 
never  been  sent  to  this  blasted  country.  You  get  so  accustomed 
to  hearing  things  like  that  said,  and  reading  about  dishonesty 
and  hearing  it  called  'clever  business'  that  you  begin  to  believe 
it  ...  this  bloody  America.  .  .  ." 

His  captor,  born  in  Limerick,  interrupted  with  patriotic 
profanity.  "We  don't  want  none  of  the  like  of  yees  nohow, 
dirty  Englishmen — " 

"Oh,  the  English,  the  English,  they  don't  amount  to  much," 
eang  Mr.  Quinn  cheerily:  "but  they're  a  damn  sight  better 
than  the  Irish." 

"Shut  it,  you,"  growled  the  man  from  Limerick;  but  Mr. 
Quinn,  greatly  pleased  with  the  effect  produced,  continued, 
with  an  air  of  profound  contempt: 


How  Arnold  Got  Out  of  Jail     147 

"The  Irish,  what  were  they  when  they  was  free  ?  A  lot  of 
savages  always  scrapping.  A  king — a  rich  guy  with  a  potato 
patch  and  two  pigs.  And  a  thousand  English  come  over  and 
licked  all  the  kings  and  all  the  potato  patches  and  all  the 
pigs — human  and  otherwise.  A  thousand  Englishmen !  I'm 
Irish  and  that's  what  I  got  against  my  parents — giving  me 
such  a  lousy  start.  A  thousand  Englishmen.  .  .  ." 

"Witt  you  cut  it  out  ?"  asked  the  infuriated  Limericker. 

"And  then/'  continued  Mr.  Quinn,  shaking  his  head  in 
sorrow,  "then  the  Irish  come  to  New  York  and  it's  never  been 
fit  for  anything  but  pigs  since.  'Everywhere  the  Irish  go, 
it's  trouble,  trouble,  trouble,' "  he  sang  in  a  high  clear  tenor. 
"Irish! — if  I'd  been  born  a  Hunky  or  a  Ginny,  or  even  a 
Yiddisher  boy— but  Irish— !  !— " 

This  time  his  discourse  was  terminated  by  a  blow  on  the 
jaw.  "I'll  learn  ye,  ye  scut,"  breathed  Limerick  heavily,  re- 
verting to  his  aboriginal  brogue.  "Now  tell  the  Judge  why 
I  hit  ye,  his  name's  Flarrity." 

Quinn  turned  to  Arnold,  holding  his  injured  jaw.  "  Think 
it'll  be  much  trouble  for  Congressman  Waldemar  to  separate 
one  Harp  from  one  job  ?"  he  asked.  "  Did  you  say  Flarrity, 
copper  ?  "  Arnold  had  been  on  the  verge  of  a  protest — it  was 
evident  Quinn  assumed  Hugo's  father  was  to  have  him  re- 
leased too.  But — this  business  of  marked  cards  meant  help 
your  friends,  hurt  your  enemies,  let  the  rest  go :  Quinn  had 
been  his  friend,  had  roused  him  from  despair,  had  known  how 
to  reach  Hugo.  He  owed  him  a  debt. 

The  wagon  rattled  up  to  the  rear  of  Jefferson  Market,  the 
prisoners  pushed  into  the  "bull-pen" — a  huge  square  room,  a 
stone-floor  filthy  with  tobacco  juice,  no  seats,  one  side  open 
to  the  gaze  of  privileged  persons — reporters,  friends  of  the 
court,  political  visitors,  shyster  lawyers — "counsel."  Some 
of  these  latter  came  to  the  iron  lattice  calling  various  names 
taken  from  the  police  blotters,  names  that  promised  a  prob- 


148  God's  Man 

able  fee:  Arnold's  pseudonym  of  Arthur  Lomerdoo — Mr. 
Krafft,  who  had  lost  Arnold's  slip  in  the  office  fight,  had 
given  it  from  memory — among  them.  Mr.  Quinn's  also; 
several  more,  to  which  a  few  responded. 

"That  hall  man  didn't  dare  say  anything,"  whispered 
Quinn,  "but  he  nodded  to  me  when  he  got  a  chance,  and  I 
slipped  him  the  other  caser  on  the  sly.  He'll  not  tell  your 
friend  where  we  are.  Don't  bother  with  these  swine." 

"Hats  off  in  the  court.  Silence !  Silence !"  they  heard 
from  outside.  The  bull-pen  commanded  a  sectional  view  of 
the  court:  high  desks  where  sat  clerks  and  other  officials,  a 
low  one  for  stenographer  and  newspaper  men.  The  vacant 
chair  in  the  center  was  filled  by  a  man,  apparently  lacking 
nothing  in  intelligence,  in  the  black  gown  of  the  judiciary. 
His  coming  had  been  the  signal  for  the  gate-man  to  proclaim 
his  own  importance  along  with  that  of  the  court  autocrat. 

Flarrity,  the  descendant  of  Ir;sh  parents,  had  received  his 
appointment  through  a  connection  his  family  had  enjoyed; 
had,  in  fact,  been  sent  to  law-school,  where  he  had  bravely 
qualified  for  the  bar,  for  the  sole  purpose  of  filling  this  judi- 
cial position.  Once  appointed,  Flarrity  had  been  faithful, 
and  he  seemed  to  take  mild  delight  in  delivering  highly  moral 
lectures  to  the  prisoners  brought  before  him.  A  shrewd 
faculty  for  judging  cases  rigidly  on  their  merits  made  him 
appear,  to  the  average  spectator,  painfully  just,  but  there 
was  hardly  a  case  brought  before  him  that  did  not  appeal  to 
his  sentimental  or  emotional  side. 

The  young  Englishman  was  the  first  to  come  before  him 
on  this  afternoon  of  ours :  the  purloiner  of  a  cheque  sent  in 
payment  of  a  moribund  account  long  since  crossed  off  his 
employer's  books;  this  offense  mitigated  by  a  year  of  scru- 
pulous honesty  when  he  might  have  stolen  a  hundred  times 
the  amount  of  the  cheque;  but,  the  writer  of  the  cheque 
turning  up,  had  forced  this  prosecution.  The  young  English- 
man told  a  itory  of  a  girl  in  serious  trouble  through  him, 


How  Arnold  Got  Out  of  Jail     149 

no  money  for  doctors'  bills — temptation  too  great — just  the 
sort  of  story  to  stir  Flarrity  immensely. 

"You  are  not  ameliorating  your  offense  by  confessing  con- 
nivance of  other  criminal  offenses,"  he  said  judicially.  "Had 
you  been  a  decent  man  you  would  have  married  the  girl 
instead  of  taking  advantage  of  her  weakness,  after  you  got 
her  into  trouble  anyhow.  But  your  sort  shifts  the  respon- 
sibility and  says  you  are  justified  by  necessity  in  taking  other 
people's  money.  What  an  excuse !  It  is  as  if  this  court  had 
killed  its  clerk  and  complained  it  did  so  to  kill  a  fly  on  the 
clerk's  nose." 

The  Puritan  prosecutor  nodded  approvingly,  but  the  man 
of  misery,  after  being  adjured  to  answer  the  unanswerable, 
only  muttered  some  nonsense  about  receiving  wages  too  small 
to  marry  on;  the  girl,  a  cloak  model,  needing  hers  for  the 
family  support,  her  father  earning  too  little  to  send  the  other 
children  to  school.  "And  she'd  seen  too  much  of  bringing 
children  into  the  world  without  enough  money  to  bring  them 
up  decently  and  give  them  half  a  chance,"  he  said,  moved 
to  sudden  bitter  self-forgetfulness  of  his  present  position: 
"besides  she'd  lose  her  job  if  she  had  a  child.  .  .  ." 

"Enough,"  interrupted  Flarrity  as  an  actor  on  a  cue  and 
at  a  climax.  "This  court,  sir,  will  teach  you  not  to  shirk 
your  responsibilities  or  to  blame  others.  Held  for  the  Grand 
Jury.  Two  thousand  ball." 

Before  the  next  name  was  read  out,  a  man  went  through 
the  gate  and  engaged  in  whispered  conversation  with  the 
Justice.  Some  dim  remembrance  persisted  in  Arnold,  he 
could  not  tell  why;  but,  when  his  supposed  name  was  called 
and  he  was  led  into  the  light  of  the  crowded  court  room,  and 
saw  the  man  more  clearly — he  wondered  if  this  man  was  not 
one  of  those  who  had  stepped  back  to  give  him  passage  from 
Krafft's  office. 

The  case  proceeded  in  the  regular  way,  the  Justice  asking 
a  question  now  and  then,  Arnold  replying  rather  gruffly  but 


150  God's  Man 

with  clearness  and  conviction.  Evidently  Flarrity  was  im- 
pressed. 

"Certain  personal  matters  should  never  be  brought  into 
legal  circles,"  he  said.  "This  court  is  a  believer  in  the  good 
old  Anglo-Saxon  fashion  of  settling  some  personal  differences 
with  the  fists.  Some  officers  of  the  law  are  over-zealous,  now 
and  then,  and  I  think  this  case  an  instance  in  point.  The 
case  is  dismissed.'"' 

"Oh,  Arnold,  old  pal;  Arnold,"  Hugo  Waldemar  whis- 
pered, "if  you  knew  how  I've  missed  you,  how  I  hunted  you. 
It's  all  right  now,  isn't  it?"  And  at  Arnold's  acquiescence, 
he  tried  to  hurry  him  down  the  aisle.  "My  car's  outside. 
Let's  get  out  of  this." 

"Wait,"  Arnold  whispered  back.  "Can  you  help  me  with 
a  friend  who  is  in  trouble?"  And  so  they  sat  in  the  front 
row  while  Quinn  was  remanded,  after  which  Hugo  signed  his 
bail-bond  and  Arnold  said,  when  they  met  in  the  outside 
corridor : 

"No  ticket  South,  mind  you.  Hand  over  the  price  of  it. 
Who's  3rour  father's  lawyer,  Hugo?  Send  this  fellow  down 
to  see  him.  Now,  mind,  Quinn,  this  case  is  not  to  be  settled 
by  your  running  away  and  leaving  Mr.  Waldemar  to  pay  the 
bill." 

"Listen,"  said  Mr.  Quinn,  with  deep  feeling,  "any  time  I 
throw  down  a  pal."  Emotion  overcame  him :  he  shook 
Arnold's  hand,  then  Hugo's,  and  giving  his  dented  derby 
a  defiant  and  jaunty  slap,  he  marched  off.  Sooner  spend  the 
night  in  the  streets  than  confess  to  Arnold  those  two  yellow 
bills  were  his  entire  capital,  incurring  the  suspicion  of  mis- 
trusting his  benefactor.  "There's  a  swell  free  lunch  down 
on  Courtlandt  Street  if  it  ain't  closed  by  the  time  I  walk 
there,"  said  Mr.  Quinn,  taking  in  two  holes  of  his  belt.  That 
article,  mildewed  and  rotten  through  much  exposure  to  night 
and  morning  dew,  fell  apart. 

"A  good  thing  too,"  said  this  incurable  optimist.     "I've 


How  Arnold  Got  Out  of  Jail     151 

been  hurting  my  stomach  pulling  that  belt  so  tight.     Maybe 
I'll  get  suspenders  now." 

So  casting  aside  the  remnants  of  the  belt  he  proceeded  on 
his  long  walk  in  the  best  of  spirits,  whistling  as  he  went. 


E3TD    OF    BOOI   II 


BOOK  III 


CHAPTER    ONE 

THE  PINK  KIMONO 
I.  ARNOLD  INVESTIGATES  ALONG  NEW  LINES 

'T  IS  certain  that  the  former  peas- 
ant, Ivan  Vladimirovitch,  knew 
nothing  of  the  phenomenon  that 
any  act,  evil  or  good,  is  a  stone 
flung  into  the  Lake  of  Life,  that, 
sinking,  sends  out  circles  which 
spread  until  they  intersect  other 
circles,  and  still  other  circles,  until 
they  intersect  all  circles;  until  all 
life  is  better  or  worse  for  that  one 
act.  No,  he  knew  nothing  of  this, 
nor  did  he  realize  that  his  circle  had 
already  broadened  out  to  sweep  within  it  the  circle  of  Arnold 
L'Hommedieu.  He  had  been  properly  grateful  for  Arnold's 
aid  in  winning  him  the  election — as  told  by  a  contrite  Hugo — 
was  willing  to  draw  on  the  privileges  banked  by  Fourteenth 
Street  contributions;  was  willing  to  ameliorate  Arnold's 
blacklisting  by  Park  Row,  and,  agreeably  to  Hugo's  sugges- 
tion, to  make  a  place  for  him  in  the  Waldemar  office. 

"You  need  a  private  secretary,  Gov.,"  Hugo  had  said  on 
the  night  of  Arnold's  release;  "a  fellow  you  can  trust  as  you 
do  yourself.  Who  oan  act  for  you  when  you're  away.  Who 
can  see  people- — ticklish  people — and  rub  'em  right  side  up — 
a  grentJeman.  .  .  ." 


160  God's  Man 

Mr.  "Waldemar  saw  the  justice  of  this.  A  great  believer 
in  personal  justice  was  the  Honorable  Mr.  Waldemar,  as  are 
all  such  honorable  gents.  He  had  robbed  Arnold  of  one  job — 
no  matter  how  inadvertently  or  unintentionally,  and  he  should 
therefore  find  him  another.  Moreover.  .  .  . 

"It  ain't  even  charity,  my  boy,"  he  said,  hugely  pleased  at 
this  opportunity  of  combining  duty  with  necessity.  "If  what 
I'm  thinking  of  goes  through,  I'll  have  to  have  somebody  to 
trust.  And  there's  not  one  at  my  office  with  the  intelligence. 
They'd  be  faithful  enough.  But  they'd  talk.  It's  too 
big.  .  .  .» 

He  had  been  planning  it  out  for  months;  ever  since  the 
Honorable  Xoaks  de  Xoailles,  the  Member  for  a  Louisiana 
Bayou  district  had  confided  a  secret  necessity,  and  suggested 
a  personal  favor.  The  terror  on  the  Honorable  Noaks'  face 
had  set  in  motion  the  ponderous  machinery  of  the  Waldemar 
vrits.  .  .  .  Koaks,  Benjamin  Hartogensis  and  some  busi- 
ness associates  with  ready  cash  were  soon  to  meet  at  Walde- 
mar House.  The  clerical  work  involved  memoranda  concern- 
ing ways  and  means ;  private  books  of  expenditures  and  profits 
would  have  been  too  much  for  Hugo — vet  secrecy  was  nine- 
tenths  of  their  capital.  .  .  . 

He  had  decided  on  Archie  Hartogensis.  Then  he  heard 
that  Archie  was  speculating,  and  no  speculator  in  need  of 
ready  money  could  be  trusted.  Young  L'Hommedieu  came 
at  the  right  moment.  Bound  to  him  by  ties  of  gratitude, 
Arnold  could  be  trusted;  and  Arnold's  intellectual  prowess 
was  assured. 

Therefore,  when  he  engaged  Arnold  as  private  secretary  he 
advanced  him  a  sufficient  sum  to  rehabilitate  himself. 

"Pay  it  back  when  convenient,"  he  said  heartily.  "I  like 
you,  my  boy.  I  like  Hugo  to  be  with  you.  I  like  your 
father.  I  want  you  to  feel  I'm  your  friend.  Your  salary  'ull 
be  fifty  a  week.  And,  say,  take  the  day  off ;  to-morrow,  too,  if 
you  like." 

"Your  Governor  is  a  ~brick"  Arnold  told  Huge  emphat- 


The  Pink  Kimono  161 

ically.  Hugo  was  waiting  in  the  outer  office,  his  car  outside. 
Mr.  Quinn  was  seated  with  the  driver — a  resplendent  Mr. 
Quinn  in  ready-made,  tawny  tweeds,  smoking  his  first  whole 
cigar  in  a  year,  and  suggesting  residential  districts  out-of- 
the-way,  quaint,  reasonable.  He  had  tramped  over  the  city 
and  knew  its  every  possibility. 

"For  a  young  gentleman  like  you,  there's  Beeckman  Place. 
Like  a  corner  of  London,  it  is.  Just  a  quiet  little  run  of  a 
block,  back  yards  right  down  to  the  river  with  landing  stages 
to  hook  up  a  boat.  And  the  East  Eiver  at  night — red  and 
green  lights  on  boats  and  barges.  And  all  sorts  of  ships. 
And  the  lights  of  Long  Island  winking  at  you.  You  forget 
you're  in  New  York,  so  you  do.  ...  There's  a  house  for 
rent  there — furnished  and  all,  and  you  could  get  it  for  the 
price  of  a  flat  anywhere  else.  But  New  York  people  don't 
know  about  enjoying  life.  .  .  .  We'd  be  very  contented 
there,  you  and  me,  Mr.  Arnold — " 

Arnold  looked  at  him  and  laughed ;  laughed  long  and  loud. 
He  had  acquired  this  man,  evidently,  as  folk  acquire  stray 
dogs  and  cats,  who  follow  so  trustfully  one  can  not  shut  the 
door  in  their  faces. 

"You  mean  you'll  forget  your  celebrated  principles  and  do 
the  housework?"  he  asked,  still  laughing. 

".  .  .  And  can  I  cook  Virginia  ham  and  eggs  a'  morn- 
ing?" asked  Mr.  Quinn,  with  sparkling  eyes,  ".  .  .  and 
planked  shad?  Can  I?  Say.  .  .  ." 

They  drove  across  town  to  Beeckman  Place,  an  odd  corner, 
like  London,  as  he  said ;  on  the  extreme  eastern  shore  of  the 
Island — Arnold,  like  many  others,  had  hardly  realized  New 
York  was  an  island — a  street  of  plain,  quiet,  brownstone 
fronts,  with  elm  trees  in  a  little  center  square  surrounded  by 
iron  rails  and  old-fashioned  wrought-iron  lamp-posts  with  oil- 
lamps.  Several  scientists  lived  there,  Mr.  Quinn  informed 
Arnold.  He  had  clone  odd  jobs  for  both ;  the  wives  of  a  num- 
ber of  sea-captains ;  they  who  owned  a  large  motor-boat  among 
them;  some  maiden  ladies  of  ancient  middle-class  families, 


162  God's  Man 

who  had  inherited  their  houses;  the  widow  of  that  Capfoi 
Withers  who  had  gone  down  with  the  Euiasi&n,  .  .  . 
others  with  histories  more  or  less  allied  with  the  sea.  It  was 
the  house  of  a  retired  rigging-maker,  recently  deceased,  a 
Londoner,  who  liked  to  believe  he  was  in  Wapping  Old  Stairs, 
his  birthplace,  that  was  for  rent  now. 

They  had  picked  up  Miss  Bobbie  Beulah  at  the  old  Lafay- 
ette, where  she  had  waited  Hugo's  return,  and  she  was  wildly 
enthusiastic  over  the  print  curtains,  the  cretonne  hangings, 
the  old  prints  on  the  walls.  Otherwise,  the  house  had  some 
relation  to  a  ship,  was  furnished  with  various  nautical  furni- 
ture that  had  been  originally  intended  for  space-economy, 
leaving  wide  blank  stretches  that  corresponded  with  the 
lofty  ceilings.  But  it  was  the  view  from  the  rear  windows 
that  decided  Arnold. 

A  patch  of  ground,  green  in  summer  and  dotted  with  roses, 
geraniums,  hydrangeas,  asters  and  nasturtiums,  now  covered 
with  straw  and  manure,  ran  its  sloping  way,  along  with  an 
asphalt  walk,  down  to  a  stone  breakwater,  where  was  cut  a 
flight  of  steps  directly  to  the  river,  the  bottom  ones  green  and 
slimy  at  low  tide.  Boats  were  moored  by  iron  rings  near 
most  of  these,  the  rear  of  each  house  being  a  duplicate  of  this 
one.  And,  spread  before  them,  was  the  life  of  the  river — 
tugs  and  ferry-boats  scudding  and  hooting,  heavy  barges  pass- 
ing under  spidery  bridges,  great  ocean-going  steamers,  sailing 
viraf t  in  tow — what  not  ? — with  the  green  hills  of  Long  Island 
dim  in  the  distance. 

"Oh,  you  absolutely  must.  It's  too  deevy.  Think  of  the 
top-hole  parties  you  can  give.  "What  a  ripper !  Topping. 
Something  most  terribly  awful  will  happen  to  you  if  you 
don't.  .  .  ."  Thus  Bobbie.  While  Arnold  saw  himself 
seated  in  one  of  the  broad  bay-windows  writing  cynical  com- 
mentaries on  life.  Strange  that  he  could  have  thought  of 
being  cynical  with  so  much  beauty  before  him;  but  to  be 
cynical  was  his  ambition  just  then. 

"Guess  I'm  a  rotten  picker,  eh?     And  all  for  seventy-five 


The  Pink  Kimono  163 

a  month.  It's  like  finding  that  much  a  month,"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Quinn.  He  saw  himself  seated  in  a  lower  but  quite  as  broad 
window,  smoking  whole  cigars  and  sending  passing  ships  to 
visit  any  enjoyable  countries  he  desired  to  remember. 

A  qualm  smote  Arnold.  He  could  not  afford  even  at  his 
generous  wages  so  much  rent  with  heat  and  lighting  addi- 
tional. But  this  unwelcome  intruder  he  dismissed  angrily. 
He  would  deny  himself  no  pleasure  hereafter.  If  he  had  not 
enough  money,  let  others  pay.  He  was  through  considering 
his  duties  as  a  citizen — and  such  rot.  He  had  done  all  that 
and  what  had  he  got  for  it?  Jail.  While,  for  violating 
those  duties,  he  was  out  of  jail  and  about  to  hire  a  house.  His 
friends  and  himself,  ...  let  the  others  go  hang. 

"I'll  take  it,  Quinn,"  he  said.  "And,  say,  Bobbie,  let's 
have  a  party  to  open  it — a  house-warming !  You  know  a  lot 
of  jolly  girls,  eh  ?  Pick  a  pretty  one  for  me  and  ask  her  how 
she'd  like  me  to  keep  a  regular  room  for  her."  He  laughed 
recklessly.  He'd  enjoy  life  while  he  had  the  chance ;  all  that 
foolishness  he  had  mucked  around  with  before — let  other  fools 
try  that.  For  him,  one  of  Bobbie's  pretty  show-girl  friends, 
.  .  .  a  pink  kimono  hanging  in  the  room  next  door, 
.  .  .  her  wearing  it  sometimes  with  the  coffee  percolator 
between  them  on  fine  sunny  mornings.  That  was  life.  .  .  . 
If  fifty  dollars  a  week  was  too  little,  he'd  find  a  way  to  get 
more.  A  clever  fellow  like  himself  could  get  money  easily 
enough  in  a  town  where  half  the  fools  were  rich.  To  hell 
with  all  that  foolishness  about  being  given  brains  to  help 
make  a  better  world.  .  .  . 

He  laughed  again,  zestful  of  life.  "Tell  you  what,  Bobbie, 
we'll  get  Archie — "  There  had  been  a  stag  reunion  of  the 
Three  Musketeers  the  night  before.  "He's  going  stale  over 
that  girl  of  his.  We'll  get  him  and  you  get  two  of  your  pret- 
tiest friends,  and  we'll  have  a  regular  time — a  real  time. 
Pick  out  one  for  me  who  isn't  ^booked  solid'  anywhere.  Then 
we'll  repeat  the  operation  when  I  move  in  here.  What  say  ?" 

He  thought  of  the  pink  kimono  again  and  his  cheeks  took 


164  God's  Man 

on  its  color.  And  at  the  same  moment — pink  kimono ! — the 
Little  One— Velvet  Voice.  .  .  . 

"You're  not  attending,"  said  Bobbie  in  severe  raillery,  and 
with  that  nice  new  enunciation  she  picked  up  since  she  had 
become  a  lady — queer,  hurried,  jumbled,  choking,  affected 
mannerisms  learned  from  provincial  English  actors,  who  pre- 
tend to  portray  sporting  aristocrats — "I  was  telling  you  about 
Alberta  Arden.  .  .  .  Bertie,  dear  old  girl,  top-hole  she 
is;  perfectly  ripping.  .  .  .  She'll  buck  you  up  a  bit; 
you  need  it,  old  dear.  You'd  get  on  like  billy-o — " 

Arnold  looked  at  her  in  amazement.  ISTo  wonder  these 
American  chorus-girls  married  English  lords.  Hugo  had  had 
her  in  training  just  a  year  or  so  and  here  she  was  talking 
what  he  took  for  the  jargon  of  St.  James. 

"Why  don't  you  go  back  to  the  stage,  Bobbie?"  Arnold 
asked  quite  honestly.  She,  so  occupied  in  her  pose,  failed  to 
see  the  connection,  assuring  him  radiantly  that  she  intended 
to.  Would  be  in  rehearsal  shortly ;  a  real  part.  At  which  an 
harassed  look  came  to  Hugo's  face  and  he  hurried  the  talk 
back  to  her  soubrette  friend  who  was  to  meet  Arnold  that 
night  if  she  was  free. 

Free !  The  word  took  on  a  different  significance  applied 
to  his  neighbor  of  the  Hotel  Tippecanoe.  Free?  At  the 
machine  now,  her  eyes  strained  and  red.  The  hanging  pink 
kimono  suddenly  ceased  to  be  desirable;  his  proposed  party 
lacked  interest.  Who  shall  say  what  would  have  happened 
had  she  not  left  the  Tippecanoe  on  the  previous  night,  she  and 
her  friend,  Miss  Smith — "the  little  lady — foreign,"  the  clerk 
explained.  "No,  they  didn't  give  no  address."  "Was  there 
a  man  with  them — a  young  fellow?"  "Two  on  'em — swell 
dressers — gay  birds."  The  clerk  winked.  "Spenders,  too. 
Gi'  me  a  good  cigar,  I  kin  tell  you.  .  .  ." 

Something  heavy  smote  Arnold  somewhere.  He  dragged 
himself  up  the  creaking  stairs  and  packed  listlessly.  The 
door  to  Velvet  Voice's  room  was  unlocked.  How  dirty  it 
was!  He  couldn't  blame  her.  So  the  other  had  been  a 


The  Pink  Kimono  165 

wrong  one,  after  all.  lie  had  suspected  it;  those  ki- 
monos. .  .  . 

Again  he  saw  the  pink  one  hanging  in  the  Beeckman  Place 
house.  "Hell,"  he  said  aloud.  "She's  dead  right — dead — 
right."  But  the  word  "dead"  had  an  ugly  sound.  Then,  as 
he  stood  at  her  open  door,  suit-case  in  hand,  he  saw  some  torn 
and  twisted  pieces  of  rubber  hose  on  the  floor — the  giant  nip- 
ple— split.  He  noted  dully,  as  people  do  when  the  mind  is  too 
stunned  for  thought  and  occupies  itself  with  registering,  me- 
chanically, infinitesimal  details,  that  the  black  rubber  had  a 
red  lining.  .  .  . 

It  was  to  have  been  his  persuasions  that  would  cause  her 
to  destroy  that.  Instead  it  had  been  a  gay  bird's,  a  swell 
dresser's,  a  spender's,  a  giver  of  good  cigars,  under  whose 
escort  she  had  departed  to  something  better  than  this  any- 
how. And  because  he  was  now  at  the  cynical  stage,  there 
seemed  only  one  solution. 

"She  did  damn'  right,"  he  said,  aloud  again,  "damn — 
right." 

"What  did  you  say  the  girl's  name  was,  Bobbie  ?"  he  asked 
as  he  rejoined  the  waiting  motor-party.  "Bertie! — that's 
rather  a  jolly  name,  what?"  He  was  mimicking,  but  only 
Hugo  noticed  it. 

"Top-hole,"  agreed  Bobbie  serenely. 

"But  has  she  got  a  pink  kimono — that's  what  7  want  to 
know.  If  she  hasn't,  let's  stop  at  Van  Alstyne's  and  buy  her 
one,  right  now.  Until  a  pink  kimono  hangs  in  Beeckman 
Place  it'll  never  be  home,  sweet  home,  to  me — " 

Mr.  Quinn,  drowsing  on  the  driver's  seat,  smiled  an  ap- 
proving satyr's  smile,  and  thought  of  the  plump-armed  aris- 
tocrat whose  waist  he  would  encircle  during  the  American 
Commune.  And  then  he  tried  to  fit  Arnold's  last  words  to 
various  popular  tunes. 

"You  fancy  yourself,  don't  you?  Doesn't  he  fancy  him- 
self, Hugo  ?  You  men  are  all  alike.  .  .  ." 

Of  such  fresh  original  observations,  delivered  in  just  such 


166  God's  Man 

affected  voices,  was  the  speech  of  Arnold's  female  friends 
composed  for  some  time  to  come. 

II.  THE  KIMONO  HANGS  IN  BEECKMAN  PLACE 

It  is  as  well  we  do  not  spy  on  him  for  the  week  that  fol- 
lowed, when  he  came  face  to  face  with  the  possibilities  of  his 
nature  along  lines  he  had  never  investigated  save  on  sudden 
imperative  impulses,  which  had  heen  regretted  too  bitterly  to 
allow  frequent  recurrences.  But,  then,  in  school  and  college, 
he  was  to  have  heen  a  parson;  his  every  act  must  be  calcu- 
lated, not  as  Arnold's,  but  as  the  future  incumbent's  of  the 
family  pulpit.  So  he  had  forced  an  ascetism  to  amaze  Sir 
Lucas  or  the  Chevalier  Etienne,  sons  of  freer  sexual  ages. 
And,  after  the  crash,  his  K"ew  York  days  had  been  devoted, 
outside  working  hours,  to  the  companionship  of  books  of 
lofty  ideals,  to  preparatory  scribbling  for  the  great  work  he 
was  to  do  making  a  better  world. 

But  in  that  first  week  of  his  new  life  he  ran  riot ;  the  pink 
kimono  hung  where  he  had  wished — there  had  been  no  diffi- 
culty about  that.  For  the  first  time  he  had  devoted  his  mind 
altogether  to  the  conquest  of  a  woman  and  had  the  fierce  joy 
of  realizing  it  was  in  his  power,  quite  without  love  on  his 
part,  to  have  a  girl,  beautiful  and  desired,  cling  about  his 
neck  with  passionate  endearments  and  reproaches  for  loving 
her  too  little,  knowing  meanwhile  that  other  men  provided 
for  her  as  Hugo  for  Bobbie,  being  rewarded  only  with  tolera- 
tion. 

"She'll  do  for  herself  with  old  Gayton  if  she  don't  watch 
out,"  Bobbie  had  said.  "Hasn't  seen  the  old  rotter  since  she 
met  you.  It's  a  rotten  shame,  Arnold,  if  you  don't  care — " 

"Oh,  I  care  well  enough,"  he  had  responded  indifferently; 
and  Bobbie  had  vented  a  vexed  little  laugh.  How  could  Bertie 
go  on- being  her  chum  if  old  Gayton  ceased  to  be  Bertie's  har- 
vest-moon ? 

It  had  been  with  the  utmost  difficulty  that  Arnold  had  per- 


The  Pink  Kimono  167 

suaded  this  girl  she  could  not  come  down  to  Havre  de  Grace 
for  the  week-end  of  Waldemar's  convention,  putting  up  at  a 
hotel.  "Hotel/'  he  had  laughed;  "at  the  Inn  every  bellboy 
calls  me  by  my  first  name;  they  work  as  a  favor  to  the  pro- 
prietor— they  call  him  'Henry.'  Can  you  imagine  me  daring 
to  come  up  to  your  room? — and  my  dad  the  pastor  of  the 
church — yes,  and  granddad — and  great-granddad.  Now, 
don't  start  that  'This  is  no  Place  for  a  Minister's  Son' — " 

"They're  always  the  biggest  devils — ministers'  sons,"  de- 
clared the  tear-stained  beauty.  "Oh,  Arnold,  you  haven't  got 
a  sweetheart  down  there?  Promise  me  you  won't  go  to  see 
her  if  you  have.  Swear  you  won't.  Oh,  but  what's  the  use 
of  swearing.  I  couldn't  believe  you.  Oh,  why  did  I  have 
to  fall  in  love  with  you  and  be  miserable  all  my  life — " 

Proving  that  a  rollicking  life  has  its  reckonings  also.  She 
kept  him  so  long  that  the  Waldemar  car  came  near  to  starting 
without  him.  The  Honorable  Noaks  de  Noailles  was  in  it, 
huddled  up  in  a  fur  coat  and  traveling  rugs,  in  anticipation 
of  the  bitter  winter-trip.  Mr.  Hartogensis  was  to  come  over 
when  they  arrived,  and  the  other  future  investors — nonenti- 
ties, Urquhart  and  Albee  and  Arthurs — would  catch  the  four 
o'clock  express. 


CHAPTER    TWO 

CONSPIEACY  DE  LUX 

AKNOLD  BECOMES  A  GOOD  BUSINESS  MAN 

ITHIN  the  city  limits  the  giant 
car  traveled  at  a  discreet  law- 
abiding  pace,  but  after  crossing 
the  great  bridge  and  passing 
through  Long  Island  City — se- 
cure in  heavy  non-skidding  tires 
— the  car  ceased  to  be  a  car  and 
became  a  purple  comet,  yet  giv- 
ing its  occupants  so  little  shock 
that  they  played  cards  at  a  fold- 
ing table. 

Before  Arnold  realized  it  they 
had  come  within  sight  of  fa- 
miliar hills  and  houses  and  were  passing  down  the  deep 
ravine  that  led  into  his  native  town.  Lordly,  snow-capped 
heights  rising  on  either  side  of  him,  and  there  just  ahead 
was  "Harbor  View/'  old  Miss  Eastknicky's  place,  where 
often  his  mother  had  taken  him  for  tea ;  where  he  had  cinna- 
mon buns,  but,  better  still,  could  view  a  panorama  of  earth 
and  sky — "The  End  of  the  World" — which  in  later  years  he 
knew  for  the  Connecticut  shore. 

What  is  that  strange  flavor  that  childhood  gives  to  the 
merest  commonplaces;  that  strange  ineradicable  flavor  that 
is  a  lifelong  remembrance  when  we  recall  trifling  incidents 
of  childhood  days?  And  how  we  try  to  rediscover  that 


Conspiracy  De  Lux  169 

fragrance ;  but  it  is  not  to  be  had  even  in  our  triumphs ;  the 
time  and  money  we  spend  to  duplicate  it,  knowing  it  lies 
ever  behind,  but  assuring  ourselves  it  is  over  the  next 
hill.  .  .  . 

This  fragrance  of  remembrance  poured  upon  Arnold  now 
with  such  an  unimportant  reminiscence  as  old  Miss  East- 
knicky's  cinnamon  buns  and  the  far-off  sailing  ships  entering 
the  narrow  harbor  channel — every  one  pirates,  or  returning 
with  musk-scented  cargoes  from  Oriental  adventures.  .  .  . 

"If  I  couldn't  play  a  flush  better  than  that,  .  .  ."  the 
senior  Waldemar  reproved  jovially.  But  Arnold  laid  down 
his  cards.  "Tired  of  playing,"  his  excuse.  He  wanted  to 
sit  back  and  watch  the  snow  fly  under  their  wheels  and  breathe 
that  fantastic  fragrance.  .  .  .  There  was  the  great 
swing  of  the  road  and  the  little  chalet-like  house  pierced  with 
Revolutionary  bullets,  .  .  .  soon  the  L'Hommedieu 
cross  could  be  seen  atop  the  tallest  trees. 

If  he  could  only  go  on  afoot,  trudge  homeward  through 
the  heavy  snowfall !  The  comfortable  electric-heat  of  the 
car  became  suddenly  distasteful  to  him,  remembering  those 
long  voyages  of  exploration  in  snow-time;  the  colder  he  got 
the  more  the  great  fire  at  home  would  overjoy  him;  when, 
sprawled  with  a  book,  he  would  read  until  supper-time,  his 
mother  knitting  near  by,  or  making  her  boys  shirts,  their 
father  emerging  from  his  study  as  it  darkened  outside  to 
read  the  New  York  morning  paper  the  mail  had  just  brought, 
and  to  speak  on  affairs  of  the  day  and  the  lesson  of  the  news- 
paper. .  .  .  His  present  companions  had  been  painted 
in  many  of  those  talks,  prophetically  recognized  from  the 
trend  of  public  opinion. 

"...  A  new  governing  class,  growing  in  power,  a  class 
made  possible  by  treating  money  as  merchandise — without 
"business  honor  or  any  conception  of  rich  men's  duty  to  the 
country.  Our  kind  of  people — the  inheritors  of  honor — must 
work  all  the  harder  to  make  every  man  realize  the  claim  every 
human  being  has  upon  the  gifts  of  God,  and  if  one  has  more 


170  God's  Man 

than  one's  share,  to  give  with  both  hands.  "We  must  make 
the  new  class  realize  real  happiness  can  never  come  from  self- 
gratification — in  the  end.  .  .  " 

Well,  the  dear  old  dad  had  been  wrong ;  but  as  Harbor  and 
Sound  swung  into  view  and  the  centuries-old  cross  of  his 
family's  crest  shone  in  the  snow-glare,  Arnold  wished  his 
father  were  right;  for,  somehow,  the  fragrance  was  fading. 
There  was  only  snow  and  hills  and  houses,  .  .  .  and  so  he  was 
glad  when  the  car  panted  up  Sycamore  Hill  and  under  the 
porte-cochere  of  Waldemar  House,  where  one  was  in  New 
York  again,  a  man-servant  to  attend  him  to  his  room,  to  lay 
out  his  evening  clothes  and  appurtenances,  to  draw  his  bath. 
The  bedroom  might  have  been  one  in  a  superior  Avenue. 
hotel ;  only  the  drifting  snow  on  the  oaks,  whose  gnarled  arms 
seemed  grasping  at  the  windows,  reminded  one  New  York 
was  miles  away,  .  .  .  and  the  shining  harbor  lights 
winking  through  the  snow,  and  once  the  approach  of  the  Con- 
necticut passenger-boat,  swinging  broadside  on  like  a  glimpse 
of  elf-land  in  the  snowstorm,  its  lighted  port-holes  above  and 
below  decks  crowded  with  little  black  people.  How  he  had 
watched  for  that  elf-ship  those  winter  nights  long  past, 
crouched  breathless  in  the  library  bay-window,  peering 
through  a  toy  telescope,  sweeping  the  Sound  about  the  Green 
Sands  Light  for  the  big  boat  to  appear,  crawling  like  a  lumi- 
nous beetle  out  of  black  depths  and  distances. 

He  threw  open  his  window,  undressed  as  he  was,  breathing 
the  snowy  piney  air,  and  thrusting  out  his  head  for  the  sight 
of  that  very  bay-window;  to  shock  his  attendant  into  horror 
regarding  his  health.  So  he  resumed  his  dressing,  donning 
a  perfect  dinner-coat  from  Hugo's  tailor,  the  most  expensive 
tailor  in  New  York. 

In  the  long,  low,  Gobelin-tapestried  dining-hall  he  saw  that 
the  nonentities  had  arrived — Urquhart,  Albee  and  Arthurs — 
monotonous  duplicates  of  one  another,  with  stiff  single-stud 
shirts,  square  white  waistcoats,  loose  dress-coats,  untidy,  life- 
less hair — what  there  was  of  it ;  barring  them  from  the  leaping 


Conspiracy  De  Lux  171 

log-fire  the  portly,  red-faced  Hartogensis  in  his  velvet  waist- 
coat and  amethyst  buttons,  and  the  tall  Lonisianian,  De  Noail- 
les,  in  a  sloping-shouldered,  high-collared  dress-coat  and  nar- 
row tight  trousers — ancient  aristocrats  by  comparison.  Walde- 
mar  was  a  compromise ;  his  clothes  and  linen  were  impeccable, 
but  his  neckwear  was  badly  tied,  his  hair  was  in  a  cow-lick. 
Arnold  suddenly  felt  the  superiority  that  perfect  groom- 
ing gives;  answered  monosyllabically  weather  prophecies 
from  the  nonentities,  who,  it  appeared  later,  were  slightly 
nervous  concerning  the  nature  of  certain  dishes  and  the  sil- 
verware that  would  not  insult  their  purpose.  And  so  they 
passed  by  those  dishes  that  presented  the  most  perplexing 
problems.  Would  they,  free  citizens,  betray  to  those  in  the 
livery  of  servitude  their  lack  of  security  in  negotiating  por- 
tions from  platter  to  plate  ?  It  was  plain  they  were  starving 
in  the  midst  of  plenty.  Arnold  wondered  what  Waldemar 
wanted  with  such  proofs  of  the  social  inequality  of  men.  He 
had  imagined  none  was  invited  to  Waldemar  House  who  could 
not  further  their  host  socially.  It  appeared  these  were  whole- 
sale druggists  from  near-by  cities ;  Urquhart,  an  elder  of  the 
Presbyterian  church,  very  strict  about  not  taking  wine ;  Albee 
wearing  an  Epworth  League  button  in  his  dress-coat—doubt- 
less it  was  seldom  in  use  except  for  such  activities;  Arthurs, 
a  little,  spry  sprat,  Baltimore  Alderman  and  Unitarian. 
These  affiliations,  convictions  and  details  were  disclosed  as 
they  talked ;  all  three  men  were  of  the  limited  mentalities  that 
can  discuss  only  personal  affairs.  Arnold  was  amused  to 
discover  that  the  Presbyterian  and  the  Dutch  Eeformed  gen- 
tlemen regarded  the  Unitarian  as  little  better  than  an  atheist ; 
while  De  Noailles,  a  Catholic,  whispered  scornfully  to  Arnold 
of  '^bourgeois  beliefs."  What  would  the  lot  of  them  think 
of  the  L'Hommedieus  who  had  acknowledged  no  church,  were 
ordained  only  by  the  head  of  the  family?  The  form  seemed 
to  be  the  important  thing  in  the  religion  of  Waldemar's 
guests,  with  Waldemar,  too,  as  a  heavy  contributor  to  the  ex- 
penses of  the  most  fashionable  Avenue  church — hence,  like 


172  God's  Man 

Squire  Hartogensis,  and  for  the  same  reason,  a  devout  Epis- 
copalian. .  .  .  Later,  when  Arnold  heard  the  reason  for 
the  gathering  it  seemed  a  most  sinister,  satiric  thing  that 
they  should  have  wrangled  about  religion  on  this  of  all  nights. 

A  footman  served  the  coffee  in  the  library — an  acre  of  un- 
handled  volumes,  whose  rich  tooling  was  the  key-panel  of  a 
general  color-scheme  of  purple.  A  butler  poured  ancient 
liqueur  brandy  as  one  administering  a  sacred  rite.  Walde- 
mar  rose  after  the  servants'  departure  and  locked  the  doors. 
Squire  Hartogensis  was  speaking  on  the  difference  between 
these  decadent  days  and  those  when  a  man  would  have  been 
kicked  out  of  his  father's  club  for  applying  recent  principles 
to  business  as  then  practised.  Waldemar  waved  all  this 
aside. 

"jSTobody  but  me  and  De  Noailles  knows  why  this  meeting's 
called,  do  they?  No,  nor'd  never  guess.  Jones  bring  you 
paper  and  pencils  ?"  This  last  to  Arnold,  who  nodded.  The 
others  shook  their  heads,  one  of  the  nonentities  adding  in 
guileful  pleasantry  that  he  had  heard  there  was  money  in  it, 
and  that  was  good  enough  for  J.  A. 

"Money !"  said  Waldemar  enthusiastically.  "Say.  .  .  . 
Enough  to  satisfy  Morgan!  It's  so  big  and  I'm  so  busy 
.  .  .  that  you're  declared  in — "  he  nodded  to  the  nonenti- 
ties. "Mr.  de  Noailles  gave  me  the  idea;  the  Squire's  my 
friend  and  neighbor  and  I  thought  he  might  like  to  turn  the 
ready  into  three  hundred  per  cent.  .  .  .  I'm  putting  all 
my  ready  in;  so's  Mr.  de  Noailles — " 

"Three  hundred  per  cent.,"  gasped  a  nonentity.  "Why, 
that's  gambling.  .  .  ."  The  objection  had  a  religious 
flavor,  but  it  was  really  the  risk  that  appalled  him.  The 
other  nonentities,  also  of  this  mind,  nodded  approval. 

"Gambling,"  jeered  Mr.  Waldemar  jovially.  "You'd  call 
it  gambling  to  put  your  money  in  a  savings  bank;  it  might 
fail.  This  can't  even  do  that.  Inside  information,  gentle- 
men, that's  it.  Wall  Street  tips  come  from  Congress  some- 
times. This  is  one  tip  the  Street  don't  get.  Won't  be  public 


Conspiracy  De  Lux  173 

in  two  months.  Then  we — that  is  Congress,  'ur  goin'  to 
pass  some  Anti- Opium  Laws,  smoking-opium.  A  good,  safe, 
pop-lar-administration  measure.  Eespectable  people  who  use 
it,  thousands  of  'em,  'ud  be  afraid  to  let  anybody  know;  those 
that  ain't  respectable — what's  it  matter  how  much  they  kick? 
And  the  Chinamen,  who  sell  most  of  it,  ain't  got  any  votes. 
.  .  .  The  Administration's  been  a  little  too  easy  on  the 
big  businesses  and  they  got  to  put  something  over  that  looks 
moral  as  hell,  but  that  don't  offend  nobody — and  this  is  it. 
.  .  .  Ko  more  smoking-opium  to  be  brought  in  or  made 
here  neither." 

"Damned  hypoquits,"  exploded  the  irascible  De  Noailles. 
"Catch  'em  pass  such  a  law  about  whisky  that  does  a  thousand 
times  moah  ha'hm  than  hop  does.  .  .  ."  He  was  fur- 
ther aroused  by  dissenting  murmurs.  "I  say  it  does,  suh," 
he  reiterated  to  Hartogensis,  who  had  murmured  the  loudest. 
"But  the  big  whisky  people  are  rich  and  respected,  leading 
citizen,  by  Goahd!  And  ev'eybody  drinks  it  in  high-class 
clubs  and  bahs.  And  all  the  district  leaders  own  saloons  or 
get  a  piece  of  the  profits  somehow.  Imagine,  a  large  glass 
for  five  cents.  Rank  poison  that  rots  out  yoah  guts;  wuhss 
than  that — sends  men  out  to  scrap  and  murder,  to  beat  up 
wives  and  chillen.  Look  at  police  coht  records;  see  if  most 
muhders  don't  come  from  drunks.  .  .  .  Drunks  from 
what  ?— Whisky !" 

He  threw  out  an  orator's  hand  and  went  on  in  hoarse 
anger:  "But  the  United  States  Government  only  bahs  ab- 
sinthe. No  moah  absinthe  to  be  imported.  Why?  Deadly 
drug,  they  say.  But  the  real  reason's  that  it's  made  in  France 
and  Italy  and  Switzehland  and  drunk  by  people  whose  votes 
don't  count ;  so  it  isn't  sufficiently  profitable  to  the  politicians 
who  keep  saloons  to  make  protesting  wuth  while.  That's  the 
soht  of  mohality  we  throw  to  the  refohmers — hypoquits,  too, 
most  of  'em.  What  a  country — ruled  by  crazy  people  all  try- 
ing to  hide  something  by  pointing  fingers  at  the  next  fel- 
low. .  .  .  And  now — hop." 


174  God's  Man 

He  paused  to  light  a  cigarette,  glaring  at  the  nonentities, 
whom  he  took  to  typify  the  mob  he  hated;  De  Noailles,  de- 
scendant of  French  aristocrats. 

"Why,  just  look  at  the  effects  of  drink.  Ef  yoah  doan' 
want  to  punch  somebody's  nose,  or  split  open  his  haid,  yoah 
go  crazy  after  women,  any  kind  of  women.  Half  those  on 
the  street  'ud  be  back  scrubbing  fioahs  if  whisky  was  ruled 
out.  But  hop  makes  yoah  quiet,  reflective,  philosophical; 
yoah  wouldn't  care  if  all  the  women  died.  Of  co'se  ef  you 
eat  it  as  mo'phine  or  laudanum  or  hehoin  or  codeine  it  has 
bad  effects,  but  even  then  not  one-tenth  what  whisky  has. 
The  scientific  way  to  take  it  without  any  ill  effect,  ef  yoah  use 
it  in  moderation,  is  smoking  it.  Fiah  destroys  the  dangerous 
gases,  a  sort  of  filteh  arrangement  catches  the  heavy  mineral 
residuum  that  would  huht  the  stomach.  .  .  .  It's  a  sure 
anodyne  for  consumption  and  heart-disease.  Why,  the  doc- 
tors gave  me  up  and  my  Chinese  servant  saved  me.  Twenty- 
five  years  ago  that  was,  and  all  that  time  Ah've  smoked." 

The  three  nonentities  drew  away  from  him.  Arthurs'  weak 
little  mouth  tightened,  Urquhart's  grim  Presbyterian  eyes 
narrowed,  Albee  looked  his  pious  horror.  Squire  Hartogen- 
sis  cleared  his  throat  as  though  to  make  a  protest,  on  behalf 
of  his  class,  against  any  such  confessions.  A  gentleman 
should  keep  his  personal  affairs  to  himself.  All  of  which 
the  thin  hawk-faced  Southerner  noted  with  grim  amusement. 

"During  that  time,"  he  continued  triumphantly,  "Ah  have 
won  a  position  higheh  than  that  of  any  one  heah ;  have  made 
a  name  that  everybody  down  South  knows.  Ah've  been  in 
Congress  twelve  yeahs.  And  when  Ah  went  to  a  great  spe- 
cialist recently  he  didn't  even  detect  tubercle  germs,  said 
physically  Ah  was  sound.  .  .  .  And  that's  the  stuff  this 
hypoquitical  govehment  of  ouhs  is  going  to  bah  out.  .  .  . 
Ah  smoked  half  an  houh  befoah  dinneh.  Do  Ah  look  crazy 
or  dreamy?  No!  All  those  lies  about  wild  dreams  were 
invented  by  doctohs  to  scare  people  away  from  it.  Eead  De- 
Quincey — you  doan'  git  any  dreams  unless  yoah  take  too  much. 


Conspiracy  De  Lux  175 

Why,  if  you  took  opium  away  from  the  doctors  they'd  be 
helpless  to  cuah  pain — cocaine  doesn't  half  fill  the  bill.  .  .  . 
And  look  at  the  distinguished  men  who've  used  it — DeQuin- 
cey,  Wilberforce,  Coleridge,  Wilkie  Collins — Ah  could  name  a 
hundred.  Yes,  and  theah's  millions  nobody  knows  about.  Do 
you  realize  moah  white  men  use  it  than  Chinese  ?  And  that's 
wheah  ouh  scheme  comes  in.  ...  Mistuh  Waldemah 
will  tell  you  about  it." 

He  sat  down.  Waldemar  arose  before  the  startled  listen- 
ers could  recover. 

"More  white  men  than  Chinese — you  heard  the  Honorable 
Mr.  de  Noailles.  And  most  of  them  right  here  in  the  United 
States.  Over  two  million,  gentlemen.  Now,  what  are  they 
going  to  do  about  their  law — the  law  that  makes  it  a  crime 
to  import  it?  Of  course,  a  lot  will  be  smuggled  in.  Men 
will  always  take  chances  for  a  three-hundred-per-cent.  profit — 
four  and  five  hundred  per  cent,  on  small  smuggling  deals. 
But  the  smuggled  stuff  won'l  be  enough — not  near  a  thou- 
sandth enough.  So  it  'ull  be  manufactured  here  from  the 
crude  gum — the  kind  I  import  in  bales  and  sell  to  you,  Jus- 
tus." He  addressed  Arthurs  from  Baltimore.  "You,  Eaton 
and  Andrew,"  the  nonentities  from  Philadelphia  and  Pitts- 
burg. 

"But,"  added  De  Noailles,  reminding  him,  "the  congres- 
sional committee  on  this  bill  put  on  a  devilish  ingenious 
dodger,  making  it  illegal  foah  any  gum  opium  to  pass  through 
the  Customs  without  being  fuhst  drenched  in  oil — oil  easily 
removed  by  the  processes  you  gentlemen  use  to  make  yoah 
mo'phine,  codeine  and  hehoin  tablets,  but  vehy  destructive  to 
smoking-opium,  becahse  it  leaves  a  vehy  disagreeable  taste 
and  makes  it  extra  inflammable.  So  that  the  gum  opium 
impohted  afteh  the  passage  of  this  law  will  make  an  infehioh 
smoking  brand." 

Waldemar  nodded.  "Now,  I  wonder  if  you  understand  our 
plan  ?  The  passage  of  this  bill  will  kite  the  price  of  smoking- 
opium.  A  £an  of  it  used  to  sell  for  five  dollars — five  dollars 


176  God's  Man 

for  less  than  a  pound.  When  the  factories  in  China  were 
closed—" 

<rWhich  was  to  please  the  Japs,  who  don't  want  Chinese  to 
be  gentle  and  peaceful  like  opium  makes  them,  but  to  be  ready 
to  fight/'  inserted  De  Xoailles  rapidly. 

"Why,  the  price  went  up,"  Waldemar  continued.  "And 
after  this  bill  is  passed  and  becomes  a  law  it'll  go  up  to  forty 
the  can,  retail;  finally  settle  around  thirty.  And  there's  our 
three  hundred  per  cent.  We  buy  up  all  the  gum  opium  we 
can  get — now  I" 

"But  the  makking  of  the  smokking-oppium — we  knaw 
nawthing  of  that"  said  Andrew  Urquhart  anxiously  in  his 
harsh  Yankee-Scotch.  He  was  glad  now  he  had  advanced  no 
religious  scruples  against  trafficking  in  the  drug.  His  com- 
panion nonentities  assented  greedily,  hoping  the  difficulty 
would  be  removed.  Such  a  simple,  obvious  and  easy  money- 
making  scheme  had  never  before  come  within  their  ken. 

"We  don't  need  to,"  answered  Waldemar,  winking.  "What's 
more,  we  don't  want  to.  To  have  it  in  your  possession  is 
illegal.  We  might  be  raided,  our  stuff  might  be  seized.  Any- 
how, we'd  have  to  pay  rake-offs  to  those  who  could  seize  it — 
police  and  customs-people."  He  winked  again  prodigiously. 
"You  wouldn't  suggest  we  break  the  law,  Andrew?" 

The  Scotch  Presbyterian  blushed  and  blustered  and  the 
Unitarian  and  the  Dutch  Reformed  man  hid  their  greedy 
smiles  and  waited. 

"They  will  attend  to  that/'  said  De  Koailles,  impatient  at 
Waldemar's  cunning  glances  and  roguish  look;  "the  people 
who  buy  from  us — the  people  who  sell  to  the  smokehs  them- 
selves— the  private  manufacturehs — the  keepehs  of  smoking- 
dens.  They  know  how.  All  we  do  is  sell  it  to  them:  have 
a  few  such  wukking  for  us  in  every  city  and  privately  spread- 
ing the  news,  making  sales  on  commission.  We  need  only  to 
insist  that  the  people  we  sell  it  to  regularly  have  lettah-heads 
printed  'Thomas  Jones,  M.  D.,'  or  'Doctah  Smith'— like  the 
peddlehs  of  mo'phin  and  cocaine  have  printed,  Waldemah 


Conspiracy  De  Lux  177 

tells  me,  to  protect  him  and  you  when  yoah  sell  them 
stuff.  .  .  ." 

The  three  nonentities  frowned.  Their  religion  taught  them 
to  believe  in  those  letter-heads — not  to  imagine  that  their 
brothers  would  stoop  to  such  low  deceit.  They  were  sorry 
Waldemar  did  not  believe,  too.  "Oh,  I  dare  say  many  of  them 
are  doctors,"  said  Albee  stiffly.  The  other  nonentities  agreed 
warmly  that  there  was  no  doubt  many  were.  "And  how  can 
we  tell  the  false  ones?"  asked  Arthurs  pathetically.  Arnold 
could  hardly  resist  the  temptation  to  remind  them  that  lists 
of  qualified  physicians  were  published ;  but  he  remembered  in 
time  he  was  the  employee  of  the  man  who  wished  to  gain  their 
support,  and  so  was  silent.  Let  the  affair  be  conducted  in  the 
usual  hypocritical  way.  Once  solitary,  before  these  piDars 
of  the  church  were  abed  that  night,  each  would  have  persuaded 
himself  he  was  actually  saving  souls.  Arnold's  bitterness 
against  average  respectability  waxed  as  he  watched  them,  and 
he  had  heard  that  ancient  Scottish  fraud  say  before  dinner 
that  he  was  deep  in  the  secretarial  work  of  a  Vice  Crusade ! 
Such  regret  as  Arnold  had  for  that  unregenerate  week  just 
past — regret  stirred  by  the  sight  of  familiar  places  and  by 
the  proximity  of  father  and  family  church — was  rapidly 
erased  as  the  night's  business  drew  to  an  end. 

He  calculated  estimates,  added  up  theoretical  figures,  made 
notes  of  ways  and  means,  did  the  necessary  clerical  work  of  a 
meeting  where  large  sums  were  pledged  and  shares  and  prob- 
able divisions  of  profits  must  be  set  down ;  did  all  these  things 
without  comment,  as  mechanically  as  any  adding  machine. 
It  was  as  well  none  of  the  partners  had  pyschic  gifts;  par- 
ticularly none  of  the  nonentities.  .  .  .  Submit  as  he 
might  in  action,  Arnold  was  never  to  yield  anything  but  con- 
tempt for  rascals,  no  matter  how  high  their  places ;  and  to  sit 
there  calmly  and  hear  Benjamin  Hartogensis,  Esquire,  and 
the  three  nonentities  persuaded  that  they  might  do  this  thing, 
yet  remain  substantial  copes  and  cornices  of  rectitude,  was  a 
nasty  draft,  nastier  when  one  must  pretend  it  was  pleasant. 


178  God's  Man 

Squire  Hartogensis,  even,  had  the  wit  to  answer  his  own 
objections  for  fear  others  would  find  them  too  difficult ;  though 
sighing  as  usual  for  the  good  old  days.  In  his  father's  club 
men  who  went  in  for  such  a  thing  as  this  would  be  expelled 
undoubtedly.  But,  then,  these  were  not  days  like  those ;  one 
could  not  stem  the  mighty  current  of  commerce.  "No  doubt 
when  I  leave  my  cash  balances  with  my  Trust  Company  they 
do  not  hesitate  to  invest  them  for  their  own  profit  in  ventures 
less  to  my  taste  than  this  one.  .  .  ." 

"If  you  depositors  only  knew  how  your  money  was  in- 
vested," said  the  Honorable  Noaks  de  Noailles  significantly, 
as  one  well  aware  of  shocking  details  humanity  would  not 
permit  him  to  relate.  .  .  .  The  nonentities  grasped 
eagerly  at  this.  They  invested  their  profits  like  simple 
godly  men;  they  did  not  make  their  wealth  a  stench  in  the 
nostrils,  a  bad  example  to  the  rising  generation,  with  wine- 
suppers,  gambling,  Scarlet  Women,  Babylonish  lechery  gen- 
erally, as  might  those  intrusted  with  their  capital  on  interest. 
They  had  heard  of  those  Trust  Company  officials  and  young 
bankers.  .  .  .  At  least,  their  money  went  to  promote  god- 
liness and  right  living.  They  were  "forward-looking"  men ! 

"They're  saving  souls  already,"  Arnold  thought  in  savage 
dismay,  suppressing  himself  with  difficulty.  They  pledged 
themselves  soon  after  that.  John  Waldemar,  ISToaks  de 
Noailles,  Benjamin  Hartogensis,  Andrew  Urquhart,  Eaton 
Albee,  Justus  Arthurs — 

"And  A.  L'Hommedieu,  please,"  said  Arnold,  rising.  Wal- 
demar rose  too  and  stared  at  him.  So  successfully  had  Ar- 
nold played  machine  that  his  employer  had  forgotten  he,  too, 
might  have  human  cupidity. 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Waldemar. 

"I  merely  wish  to  invest  my  modest  share,"  Arnold  an- 
swered. "One  thousand,  gentlemen.  Think  how  much  bet- 
ter it  is  to  have  no  one  know  our  affairs  except  those  finan- 
cially interested.  Have  I  your  permission  ?" 

R  was  a  bold  thing  to  do,  but  it  was  in  line  with  the  night's 


Conspiracy  De  Lux  179 

proceedings.  A  hold-up,  nothing  less,  for  John  Waldemar 
knew  Arnold  had  no  thousand  to  invest  in  anything.  "So 
this  was  his  gratitude,"  was  Waldemar's  first  angry  thought; 
then  he  grinned.  The  boy  was  playing  good  poker;  he  had 
made  no  private  demands  upon  him,  his  friend,  only  upon  the 
company — upon  them  all !  Shrewd  business !  His  opinion 
of  Arnold  was  heightened. 

"Put  it  down,  partner,"  he  guffawed  heartily.  "Partners 
all !  You  have  only  to  send  your  checks  to-morrow  and  we'll 
begin  scattering  orders.  India,  China,  Ceylon,  Burma — in  all 
our  names.  Deliveries  to  each — except  our  last  young  part- 
ner. Mr.  de  Noailles  has  his  warehouses,  too — tobacco  ware- 
houses. But  the  tobacco  won't  kick.  Time  enough  to  or- 
ganize our  selling  force  when  the  stuff  comes.  ...  A 
dock-and-doris  all  around  to  our  success — "  And  he  began 
to  fill  the  glasses. 

"It'll  no  be  saidd  of  Andre  Urquhart  that  he  everr  touched 
a  drapp  of  the  stuff,"  persisted  the  Scottish  fraud  stubbornly 
when  Waldemar  tried  all  persuasions  to  get  him  to  add  native 
to  his  Scotch  soda.  At  which  Eaton  Albee,  a  prop  of  the 
temperance  societies  of  Philadelphia,  weakly  acquiesced  and 
set  down  his  own  glass.  But  the  other  nonentity,  a  secret 
drinker,  derived  too  much  that  was  exquisite  in  sensual  pleas- 
ure at  this  excuse  to  give  way  to  his  failing  in  public.  His 
weak  eyes  watered  with  anticipated  pleasure;  he  only  feared 
his  looks  would  betray  him.  So  he  drank  with  pretended 
amateurishness,  making  a  wry  face  and  anxiously  scanning 
for  possible  suspicion  the  eyes  of  his  brother  wholesalers.  In 
the  face  of  his  remark  that  it  was  nasty  stuff  there  was  noth- 
ing for  a  youthful  cynic  to  do  but  refill  his  glass  and  drink 
slowly,  smacking  his  lips.  De  Noailles  regarded  his  action 
sourly. 

"Only  a  nightcap,"  said  Arnold,  moved  to  apology.     .     .     . 

"More  harm  in  what  you  just  took  than  in  all  I 
smoke  in  a  day,"  said  De  Noailles,  then  yawned  jaw-break- 
ingly,  reminded  that  he  needed  his  night-cap.  He  said  good 


180  God's  Man 

night  and  hastened  off,  the  nonentities  following,  Waldemar 
seeing  Hartogensis  to  the  door.  The  Squire  had  avoided 
scrupulously  the  inclusion  of  Arnold  in  his  general  good 
night. 

"In  my  father's  day,"  he  said  to  Waldemar  outside,  "a 
young  man  like  L'Hommedieu  "would  have  found  himself 
persona  non  grata  with  men  of  honor.  The  customs  of  to-day 
forbid  my  cutting  him,  hut  there  is  enough  left  of  my  father 
in  me  that  refuses,  at  least,  to  shake  him  by  the  hand." 

"I'll  take  your  note  for  three  months,  partner,"  said  Walde- 
mar,  returning  to  the  library  and  finding  Arnold  there.  Part 
of  the  former  moujilc's  success  had  been  in  making  ugly 
things  graceful,  and  he  knew  Arnold  had  lingered  to  discuss 
that  thousand  dollars  he  did  not  have.  Waldemar  clapped 
his  shoulder  heartily.  "I  don't  forget  my  friends,"  he  added. 
Which  slightly  shamed  Arnold  as  -to  his  ruse. 

"You  see,     .     .     ."     he  began  to  explain. 

'That's  all  right,  my  lad,"  said  Waldemar.  "It  was  good 
business.  Good  night." 

Arnold  had  begun  to  capitalize  his  clevernesa. 


CHAPTER    THREE 

THE  GAY  LIFE 
I.    AT  ROCAMORA'S  RESTAURANT 

THE  weeks  and  months  that 
|ff followed  Arnold  became  one  of  the 
Silk-Hat  brigade,  those  noble  New 
Yorkers  who  spend  their  nights 
endeavoring  to  lift  our  restaurants 
to  the  appearance  of  Parisian  ones, 
our  theaters  to  the  appearance  of 
London  ones,  to  companion  whom 
has  arisen  a  race  of  young  women, 
ex-convent  girls,  who  might  have 
been  debutantes  but  preferred  the 
stage ! 

The  resulting  society  resembles  the  real  thing  so  closely 
that,  when  those  others  who  had  admittance  to  Newport's 
Holy  of  Holies  came  to  dance  at  the  supper-places,  it  was 
difficult  to  tell  the  varieties  apart. 

Carol  Caton  differed  in  no  salient  respect  from  Bobbie 
Beulah  or  Bertie  Arden.  It  was  the  business  of  both  to 
crack  the  whip  over  their  males,  to  urge  them  to  further 
efforts  to  pay  large  bills  for  lingerie  and  the  latest  modes  gen- 
erally; and  for  jewelry,  motor-cars,  theater -boxes,  foreign 
travel.  Both  "loved"  to  dance  until  daybreak,  to  parade  the 
Avenue  in  automobiles.  Both  talked  vivaciously  during  per- 
formances of  the  "adored"  pianola  and  phonograph  ragtime. 
Neither  read  much  of  anything,  unless  some  one  had  a  vogue, 


182  God's  Man 

except  fiction  with  bon-bon  wrappers  and  contents  to  match; 
attending  Shavian  or  Maeterlinckian  performances  for  the 
same  reason  that  took  them  to  the  Opera — the  "best  people" 
would  be  there. 

"The  only  difference  between  you  is  that  until  your  kind 
wears  wedding-rings,  you  aren't  allowed  the  freedom  of  the 
city/'  said  Arnold  to  Carol  one  night  in  Eocamora's.  When 
she  desired  a  tango  a  smart  young  matron — Mrs.  Bruce  Pick- 
ens — with  a  habit  of  divorces  and  none  for  babies,  accom- 
panied her  as  chaperon.  Her  husband  was  a  South  Carolina 
Pickens,  which  guaranteed  her  as  a  social  cicerone;  but  he 
was  generally  South  attending  to  the  family  cotton-mills,  so 
his  wife  was  glad  to  chaperon  one  who  gave  her  an  excuse  to 
visit  the  supper-places.  Archie  Hartogensis  paid  the  bills. 
Arnold's  remark  on  wedding-rings  was  made  while  Archie 
and  Mrs.  Pickens  taxicabed  twenty  blocks  south  to  procure 
that  lady's  special  brand  of  cigarettes. 

"I've  heard  about  you,  Arnold,"  replied  Carol  in  deep 
sorrow.  "I  don't  expect  you  to  have  any  respect  for  women 
any  more.  I  never  expected  you  to  talk  like  that — not  you." 

"And  I  never  expected  to  see  you  in  Eocamora's  at  mid- 
night either,  wearing  a  skirt  so  tight  that  when  you  dance 
every  bald-headed  ruffian  or  young  rascal  can  see  every  curve 
of  your  body — " 

She  interrupted  him  with  an  angry  protest,  but  he  disre- 
garded it.  "Don't  be  prudish  in  words  and  risque  in  action, 
Carol — they  don't  go  together.  What  else  did  you  wear  the 
dress  for?" 

"If  s  the  style,"  she  retorted  angrily,  "as  you'd  see  if  you 
looked  in  the  smart  shops  once  in  a  while.  What  have  /  to 
do  with  it?" 

"You  have  to  wear  it,"  he  returned,  "and  you  have  a  mir- 
ror. And  you  know  if  you  stand  with  a  strong  light  back  of 
you  .  .  /' 

Her  lips  compressed.  "If  you  say  another  word  about  it 
I'll  get  up  and  walk  right  out  of  this  restaurant,"  was  her 


The  Gay  Life  183 

ultimatum.  "That's  a  man  for  you.  If  the  right  sort  of 
women  dress  like  dowdies,  they  go  hunt  up  some  fast  one 
who  wears  the  last  word.  And  if  they're  in  style,  they're 
indecent.  Not  another  word." 

Arnold  smiled.  "I'm  not  blaming  you  for  doing  your  best 
to  make  men  crazy  about  you,"  he  said  coolly,  "only  I  resent 
your  criticism  of  my  friends  just  because  they're  doing  the 
same.  You  dress  alike  and  think  alike  and  live  alike — 
except  that  you're  in  the  Social  Register  and  they're  only 
in  the  telephone  book.  You  happen  to  be  lucky  enough 
to  have  fathers  and  husbands  who  work  overtime  to  buy 
you  new  clothes  and  jewelry,  which  their  fathers  and  hus- 
bands can't;  so  they  get  other  people  to  pay  their  bills.  I'd 
like  to  know  where  the  difference  lies.  .  .  ." 

Carol's  eyes  were  snapping.  "If  you  can't  see  any  differ- 
ence between  a — well — much  as  I  hate  the  word — a  lady  and 
a— a—" 

"Say  it  in  French/'  Arnold  suggested.  "That's  one  of  a 
lady's  pet  hypocrisies — to  pretend  a  French  word  is  better 
bred  than  an  English  one — a  lady  and  a  cocotte,  eh?  Yes, 
but  these  friends  of  mine  aren't  cocottes.  Bobbie  has  been 
with  Hugo  two  years.  It's  as  long  as  Mrs.  Pickens,  your 
friend,  was  with  her  first  husband.  As  long  as  a  good  many 
of  your  friends  are  with  their  first — or  second — or  third  hus- 
bands— I'm  not  criticizing;  I'm  only  trying  to  find  out  the 
neat  of  this  wonderful  superiority.  .  .  ." 

Carol  shut  her  eyes  and  clenched  her  teeth  to  avoid  an- 
swering his  exasperating  smile  in  the  angry  words  that  sug- 
gested themselves  to  her. 

".  .  .  Just  as  I'd  like  to  find  the  difference  between 
the  average  Wall  Street  broker  and  Jim  Deering,  who  keeps 
a  pool-room — a  gambling-house — around  the  corner.  Or  be- 
tween what  Archie's  doing  and  backing  a  long-shot  to 
win.  ...  If  you're  really  fond  of  Archie,  Carol,  you 
shouldn't  let  him  do  that  wild-cat  speculating.  Look  at  the 
boy !  He's  aged  ten  years  in  ten  months." 


184  God's  Man 

Archie  and  Mrs.  Pickens  had  returned  with  her  cigarettes. 
The  wistful  eager  look  of  a  pet  animal  was  an  habitual  one 
in  his  eyes  nowadays,  and  that  Mrs.  Pickens  should  thank  him 
only  carelessly  for  the  immense  amount  of  trouble  to  which 
he  had  been  to  oblige  her  seemed  to  him  all  he  should  expect. 
Between  them,  Mrs.  Brooks-Caton  and  Carol  had  trained  him 
well,  thought  Arnold,  who  imagined  Archie  was  beginning  to 
take  on  a  growing  resemblance  to  The  Good  Old  Rabbit, 
Carol's  father.  Arnold  wondered  if,  when  they  were  married, 
Carol  wouldn't  call  him  her  "good  old"  something  or  other. 

"We  were  just  talking  about  you,  Arch,"  he  said  when 
the  party  became  a  quartet  again.  "I've  offended  Carol  by 
telling  her  she  shouldn't  allow  you  to  wild-cat — that  you're 
getting  old  before  your  time — " 

"Dear  old  boy,"  Mrs.  Pickens  interrupted  languidly,  "you 
still  smell  of  the  country.  You're  half-civilized— quite. 
What's  a  youngster  to  do  in  New  York  with  no  money  and 
expensive  appetites?  It's  either  buck  the  double-0,  play  the 
big  game,  or  be  a  piker  and  commute,  carry  parcels  and  have 
Swedish  servant-girls.  Have  you  told  Carol  it's  her  duty  to 
educate  Scandinavians  in  cookery?" 

"Why  not?"  asked  Arnold.  "If  that's  so  terrible— com- 
muting. And  the  best  servants  are  those  you  catch  at  Ellis 
Island  and  train  yourself.  But,  of  course,  neither  you  nor 
Carol  know  enough  to  train  servants  in  anything.  Your 
educations  've  been  neglected."  He  smiled  with  aggravating 
irony. 

"Hark  at  him,  Carol,"  said  her  chaperon  in  amused  tol- 
erance. ''Smells  of  the  country?  He  positively  reeks  of  it. 
We've  mislaid  all  those  middle-class  ideas,  you  dear  old- 
fashioned  thing.  They  belong  to  the  age  of  bustles  and  crino- 
lines." 

"On  the  contrary,"  replied  Arnold :  "it's  middle-class  to  ob- 
ject to  them.  All  the  old  aristocrats  pride  themselves  on  know- 
ing things  better  than  their  servants.  It's  only  the  American 
and  Gaiety  girls  marrying  into  the  aristocracy  who 


The  Gay  Life  185 

have  your  ideas,  you  dear  new-fashioned  thing.  And  that's 
just  what  I  was  saying  to  Carol :  what's  the  difference  between 
the  average  engaged  society  girl,  nowadays,  and  the  show-girl 
with  a  banker  friend?  They  dress  alike,  talk  alike,  think 
alike—" 

"This  passes  a  joke,  Mr.  L'Hommedieu,"  said  Mrs.  Pick- 
ens  coldly. 

" —  and  act  alike  the  moment  anybody  dares  to  tell  them 
the  truth  about  themselves,"  finished  Arnold,  rising  to  go. 
"While  the  first  attribute  of  aristocracy  is  plain  speech,  I 
didn't  start  to  offend  anybody.  I  was  just  anxious  for 
Archie—" 

"Leave  me  out  of  it,"  said  that  young  gentleman  hastily. 
"Personally,  I  think  you  can  say  the  rudest  things  in  the 
world,  Arnold.  Nobody  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing  in  all  his- 
tory— comparin'  ladies  with  chorus-girls — " 

"And,  moreover,"  added  Mrs.  Pickens  lazily,  recovering  her 
pose,  "one  should  like  to  know  where  our  young  friend  got 
all  his  information  about  the  aristocracy,  Archie — " 

"One  learns  from  one's  parents,  usually,"  returned  Arnold, 
roughly  mimicking  her  tone — a  habit  of  his,  this  mimicry, 
which  had  enraged  both  Bobbie  and  Bertie.  "If  one  doesn't, 
one  usually  doesn't  learn.  .  .  ."  He  took  himself  off  with 
that,  conscious  he  had  been  bad-mannered,  regretting  it  the 
next  moment.  But  he  was  the  sort  who  must  have  excuses  for 
conduct:  now  he  had  allied  himself  with  the  Bobbie  and  Ber- 
tie sort,  he  must  convince  himself  no  better  were  to  be  found. 

Besides,  he  was  angry  on  Archie's  account:  these  women 
taking  for  granted  all  his  favors.  Archie  could  not  afford  ex- 
pensive supper  parties,  theater-boxes,  ten  to  twenty-dollar  taxi- 
cab  bills — all  of  which  they  had  had  that  evening— -had  on 
many  previous  evenings.  Among  people  assured  of  their  BO- 
cial  position,  a  young  engaged  couple  often  dispensed  with  a 
chaperon — for  theaters  and  luncheons  and  teas,  at  least;  b*t 
Mrs.  Brooks-Caton  was  a  Median  law  giver  with  her  insistence 
on  this  "smart"  appendage,  playing  duenna  herself  whenever 


186  God's  Man 

she  had  nothing  of  more  importance.  Archie's  weekly  pay 
as  his  uncle's  assistant  must  be  swallowed  up  in  one  affair  like 
this  one  of  to-night ;  and  with  this  sort  of  life,  and  one  or  two 
reverses  in  speculation,  his  mother's  legacy  would  vanish.  But 
Arnold  knew  Archie  too  well  to  think  he  would  give  Carol  up. 
It  was  in  the  boy's  extreme  nature  to  do  something  desperate. 
This  worried  Arnold  more  than  he  would  admit,  in  his  new 
character  of  cynic. 

He  tried  Quinn's  remedial  whistling,  but  found  it  a  hollow 
fraud  as  an  anodyne.  It  was  a  dull  night  for  Arnold.  .  .  . 
Bertie,  Bobbie  and  Hugo  away  at  the  American  premiere  of 
the  London  comedy,  The  Stirrup-Cup,  in  which  both  girls 
had  prominent  parts,  Bertie  because  she  was  clever  at  imper- 
sonating slangy  horsy  female  types;  Bobbie — he  more  than 
suspected — because  Hugo  had  put  money  in  the  show.  Ar- 
nold's own  duties  at  the  office  had  kept  him  away  from 
Rochester,  the  scene  of  the  opening — the  shipments  of  gum 
from  Burma  had  come  in  on  the  Southern  Pacific  boat  from 
New  Orleans  the  night  before,  transhipped  from  the  Los  An- 
geles Limited  and  the  Pacific  Mail  Altraria — and  Arnold, 
in  sole  charge,  had  his  hands  full — hundreds  of  orders  had 
been  received  on  the  bare  whisper  of  the  promised  supply — 
the  underworld  wireless  had  been  working  amazingly.  .  .  . 
So,  for  the  first  time  in  several  months,  he  had  free  evenings. 

Arnold  was  just  beginning  to  know  New  York.  Although 
he  had  spent  more  than  a  year  as  a  reporter  on  The  Argus, 
his  literary  gifts  had  been  recognized  there,  as  it  had  been  a 
chain  of  pleasant  assignments  among  the  best  people — the  best, 
literally:  interviews  with  curators  of  museums,  celebrities  of 
scientific  or  sociological  fame,  visits  to  private  theatrical  per- 
formances of  Greek  plays,  open  air  Shakespearean  revivals, 
concerts,  symphonies,  opera  performances  out  of  the  beaten 
track — special,  editorial  page,  Sunday  "stuff." 

He  had  known  of  the  misery  of  the  poor :  had,  in  the  ab- 
stract, enthusiastically  desired  to  end  it;  but,  after  his  six 
months  among  the  under  dogs,  he  knew  now  how  unnecessary 


The  Gay  Life  187 

tnat  misery  was.  And  he  had  been  virtuously  irate  over 
stories  he  had  heard  of  the  prodigal  waste  of  money  along 
Broadway.  But  he  had  never  imagined  that  the  misery  of 
the  poor  gave  their  oppressors  such  paltry  results. 

He  could  forgive  the  ancient  Greeks  their  helots  because 
of  the  philosophy,  literature  and  architecture  that  system 
helped  give  the  world:  the  Caesars  their  bloody  conquests  for 
the  sake  of  the  great  Roman  law,  which  had  taught  the  world 
unity  and  justice  in  government:  the  Eenaissance  tyrants 
their  cruelties  for  their  Sandro  Botticellis — the  Catholic 
Church  its  Inquisition  for  its  encouragement  of  learning  and 
art.  .  .  .  But  what  excuse  had  these  spenders  along 
Broadway  for  the  thousand  and  one  crimes  perpetrated  against 
the  Annie  Eunices  and  Hans  Chassertons,  the  helpless  folk 
who  must  live  as  in  a  windowless  cellar,  not  knowing  there  is 
sunlight  in  the  world — "crawling  up  drainpipes  until  they  die" 
hadn't  "Wells  said  ?  And  what  was  the  rest  of  it  ? 

"It  isn't  as  though  they  had  something  to  show  for  the 
waste  they  make  of  us.  They  are  ugly  and  cowardly  and 
mean."  .  .  .  He  remembered  it  all  now,  Masterman's  tirade 
to  Kipps.  His  cheeks  burned — What  did  they  have  to  show? 

Women — he  had  gone  into  that  to-night. 

Art — he  grinned  painfully  at  ugly  piled  up  Broadway,  the 
beauty  of  a  winter's  night,  pale  scimitar  moon  and  moonlight 
blue  of  sky  desecrated  by  electric  advertisements,  a  huddled 
mass  of  varying  heights  and  architecture,  the  blank  walls 
next  a  pure  Ionic  building  flattened  out  with  hideous  porno- 
graphic show-posters. 

Increased  good  taste — a  mass  of  men  in  ugly  clothes  made 
to  hang  on  wires,  having  no  relation  to  the  beauty  of  the 
human  body,  ugly  lumps  of  dusty  hard  black  felt  on  their 
heads. 

Increased  learning  and  education — crowded  under  a  sky- 
scraper a  theater  bearing  the  name  of  a  Bowery  Waldemar 
who  had  found  millions  in  cheap  salacious  melodrama.  *.  ,  •  . 
A  second  crowded  to  the  doors  by  exhibiting  women  in  various 


188  God's  Man 

stages  of  nudity;  a  third  above  which  bla2ed  in  letters  five 
feet  high,  the  name  of  a  girl  who  had  caused  a  great  man 
to  be  murdered,  a  little  one  to  be  tried  for  his  life. 

While,  on  side  streets,  artists  who  had  gained  proficiency  in 
the  work  of  great  playwrights,  acted  to  handsful  of  eager 
sympathetic  people  who  had  little  more  than  the  price  of  their 
seats :  great  paintings  hung  unobserved  and  un-understood  in 
the  museums ;  literature  was  hidden  by  bon-bon  trade-goods ; 
great  men,  unless  they  prostituted  their  talents  and  took  or- 
ders from  their  inferiors,  ate  in  dairy-lunches  and  boarding- 
houses;  while,  back  on  the  Great  Lane  again,  the  ticket- 
speculator  who  insulted  the  timid  into  paying  double  prices, 
ordered  champagne  for  his  fat  greasy  womenfolk. 

Gamblers  and  brainless  victims,  prostitutes  and  college- 
boys,  stock-brokers  and  rural  investors,  actresses  and  "angels" 
— all  the  head-hunters  and  heart-breakers  and  pigeons  for  the 
plucking.  And  all  bought  champagne,  champagne  that  few 
wanted  and  that  those  few  should  not  have  had. 

Arnold  entered  Sydenham's.  He  had  heard  of  the  new 
cabaret  up-stairs  but  when  his  party  had  wanted  seats  it  had 
always  been  crowded.  Perhaps,  to-night,  alone,  they  could 
crowd  him  in.  He  could  not  have  explained  why  he  went ;  we 
are  all  creatures  of  habit  and  he  had  been  living  that  sort 
of  life  for  some  months. 

The  head  waiter  shook  his  head  in  dignified  reproof  at  the 
temerity  of  an  unknown  person  expecting  to  be  seated  without 
a  previous  reservation.  Arnold  sighed  and  reached  for  his 
pocket ;  but,  at  that  moment,  a  small  whirlwind  of  pink  chiffon 
loosed  itself  from  a  male  dancer's  arms  and,  turning  several 
circles,  bumped  the  breath  from  the  head  waiter  and  resolved 
into  the  Little  One,  flushed  and  radiant,  a  hand  on  Arnold's 
arm. 

"Wat  you  tell  zhis  shentleman,  Luigi?".she  demanded. 
"Wat  you  say — no  place  ?  I  gif  you  my  word,  Luigi,  eef  you 
doan'  put  in  a  little  tiny  table — jus*  like  zat — I  go  walk  out 
of  zhis  'ole  and  go  to  Cafe  Abbaye.  Now— w'at?" 


The  Gay  Life  189 

But  Luigi  had  already  acknowledged  defeat  and  sent  an 
omnibus  boy  to  cover  a  low  serving  stand,  Sonetchka  rattling 
out  reproaches  and  questions  meanwhile,  and  Arnold  hasten- 
ing to  explain.  The  omnibus  returned  to  remind  Luigi  of  the 
previous  requisitioning  of  that  "table." 

"Zhis  fool  Broadway,"  continued  Sonetchka  in  despair. 
"Zhey  sit  out  zere  half  ze  night  to  enjoy  zemselves  one  hour — " 
She  pointed  to  a  row  of  waiting  people  who  were  glaring 
wickedly  at  the  favored  Arnold.  "Well,  zen,  rules  or  no  rules, 
he  sit  at  ze  entertainers'  table.  Tell  ze  proprietor  he  doan' 
like  it,  lump  it.  He  doan'  lump  it  get  anuzzer  dancer.  Come 
—you." 

Only  Pink  and  Beau  sat  at  this  particular  table,  so  So- 
netchka could  speak  freely  and  she  dashed  rapidly  into  a  rep- 
etition of  Arnold's  account  of  his  treatment  at  the  hands  of 
the  law.  She  was  violently  angry.  But  Pink  only  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  and  spoke  in  polite  scorn. 

"Anybody  would  think  you'd  just  come  to  the  Big  Town 
the  way  you  take  it,  Sonny."  (He  was  careful  to  use  good 
English  in  the  presence  of  a  stranger.)  "What  did  you  ex- 
pect— the  lawyer  to  kiss  him  and  the  judge  to  ask  him  to 
have  a  drink  ?  Those  fellows  all  work  together.  Hit  one  of 
'em  and  you  hit  the  bunch.  They're  at  the  steering-wheel 
and  they've  got  gats — guns — for  anybody  who  tries  to  stop 
their  car — what  difference  does  it  make  if  a  few  common 
people  get  run  over  and  killed,  it's  get  out  of  the  way  or  take 
your  chances.  .  .  .  But  the  idea — an}'body  trying  to  stop 
'em — "  He  turned  to  Arnold.  "It's  lucky  you  had  friends 
with  a  pull  or  you'd  be  on  the  inside  looking  out — making 
little  ones  out  of  big  ones,  old  sport — "  The  strain  of  good 
English  for  a  long  speech  was  too  much  for  him,  and  after 
surveying  and  judging  Arnold,  he  thought  it  safe  to  relapse 
into  normal  expression. 

"How  did  she  act  when  she  saw  her  brother  ?"  asked  Arnold 
anxiously. 

Sonetchka  winked.    "She  nev-ver  see  'im.    I  got  'im  weez 


190  God's  Man 

friends.  She  think  he  got  ze  money  and  run  away.  Zat  ee« 
better  zan  she  see  him  as  he  is,  hein?" 

Gazing  at  the  two  youths  in  modish  dress-clothes — save 
for  certain  eccentricities  in  the  shape  of  jet  buttons  and  silk 
cord — with  their  highly  polished  finger-nails  and  hair  that 
seemed  to  have  been  subjected  to  the  same  process,  Arnold's 
heart  leaped.  "Was,  it  you — you  three — who  took  her  away 
from  the  hotel?" 

Sonetchka  and  Beau  took  the  floor  again  at  the  beckoning 
of  the  acting  manager  and  Pink  answered  him  in  the  affirm- 
ative. A  curious  lightness  took  hold  of  Arnold.  "A  quart  of 
Paul  Eoger,  waiter,"  he  said,  "four  glasses.  .  .  .  How 
long  before  we  four  can  get  away  to  ourselves — a  few  hours  ? 
I'll  wait." 

Pink,  who  wished  Sonia  had  been  more  explicit  as  to  the 
stranger's  views  on  the  question  of  property,  wondered  if 
Arnold  had  been  a  gentleman  in  hard  luck  then,  or  a  grafter 
in  good  luck  now. 

He  determined  to  investigate  and  began,  somewhat  ob- 
scurely, it  seemed,  with  a  tirade  against  those  in  high  places; 
the  rich  and  the  powerful,  against  the  law  and  the  courts, 
the  judges  and  the  juries,  the  police  and  all  who  stand  for 
authority,  and  ending — his  hands  raised  and  clinched — ''While 
we,  we're  nothing  but  a  lot  of  cowardly  rats  to  stand  for  it." 

Arnold  nodded  assent.  "That's  just  it,"  he  said.  "A  lot  of 
sheep,  not  rats ;  rats  are  braver  than  we  are.  "We  let  people  do 
things  to  us  because  somebody  says  it's  legal.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  all  our  laws  ought  to  be  pitched  into  the  fire,  and  a  new 
bunch  made  that  fit  modern  conditions.  The  people  who  run 
things  do  anything  they  like  with  the  law,  use  it  as  a  club  to 
make  the  other  people  work  hard  for  them." 

"They  never  did  it  for  me,"  chuckled  Pink,  gloating.  "I 
was  on  from  the  start.  I  guess  I  got  next  the  day  old  Ogle- 
thorpe  visited  our  school.  They'd  been  teaching  us  honesty 
was  the  best  policy  and  we,  like  a  lot  of  saps,  believed  it. 


The  Gay  Life  191 

When  our  Superintendent  told  us  Oglethorpe  was  coming  to 
spiel  us  Commencement  Day,  I  thought  it  was  the  bunk.  Fd 
read  what  the  papers  said  about  that  big  yegg-thief  and  child- 
murderer — with  those  poor  kids  working  in  his  mines.  But 
the  Superintendent ! !  you'd  a  thought  he'd  be  on  his  belly  any 
minute  asking  Oglethorpe  to  kindly  wipe  his  hoofs  on  him  if 
he'd  thought  his  clothes  were  clean  enough.  And  the  other 
teachers ! — simperin'  and  going  on  like  he  was  God  Almighty. 
.  .  .  And  the  old  yegg  had  the  nerve  to  look  us  thousand 
kids  in  the  eye  and  tell  us  to  be  square  and  straight  and  we'd 
be  successful — him  that  cheated  at  marbles  I  bet  when  he  was 
our  age  and  sneaked  to  the  teacher  if  somebody  licked  him  for 
it.  ...  The  Lord  give  him  his  success  as  a  reward  for 
never  missing  Sunday-school  and  church  and  Epworth  League 
in  forty  years.  .  .  .  And  all  those  little  suckers  and  those 
big  stews  of  teachers  jest  gaped  at  him  as  if  to  say  'How  true' 
— oh,  my  God !  that  made  me  sick.  I  never  went  back  next 
year — started  shooting  craps  and  hanging  around  pool-rooms 
instead.  .  .  .  Grow  up  and  be  a  nice  kid,  huh  ? — and  get 
a  good  job  running  errands  for  three  per,  then  in  a  few  years 
be  a  clerk  at  six,  and  end  up  at  fifty  getting  twenty- five; 
they'd  run  my  dad  out  of  business,  so  I  couldn't  have  the  store, 
and  at  sixty  get  fired  and  git  the  workhouse,  less'n  I  had  some 
kids  to  support  me.  .  .  .  Not  me;  not  on  your  life. 
...  I  played  that  old  yegg's  game,  instead — in  my  petty- 
larceny  way." 

Sonetchka  and  Beau  had  rejoined  them  during  this  speech, 
and  they  nodded  emphatic  assent.  "Yes,  a  lot  of  us  guys  are 
getting  on,"  confirmed  Beau.  "I  got  a  father  worked  ten 
hours  a  day  all  his  life  and  now  I'm  supporting  him.  I  didn't 
go  into  the  mills  like  he  wanted  me  to  because  I  didn't  see  the 
sense  of  working  like  a  dog  jest  for  the  privilege  of  eating 
Irish  stew  five  times  a  week  and  getting  drunk  every  Saturday 
night  to  forget  what  a  hell  of  a  thing  life  was." 

"And  me,"  Sonetchka  put  in,  "when  I  come  over  here  J,  was 


192  God's  Man 

maid  to  a  lady — fourteen  hours  on  iny  feet,  me.  Zen  I  make 
flowers  for  'ats.  No  good.  Ze  lady  I  work  for,  she  lie  around 
all  day  until  her  'usband  come  'ome,  zen  she  get  me  to  pull 
her  fat  waist  togezzer  and  zey  go  to  theaters  and  restaurants 
and  I  sit  'ome  waiting  to  undress  'er.  She  fire  me  because 
I  go  out  one  night  to  pictures  and  get  caught  in  Subway  acci- 
dent and  she  undress  'erself.  In  ze  factory,  I  work  nine  hours 
and  'are  to  take  work  'ome  and  work  nights  to  get  enough  to 
eat.  And,  sometimes  w'en  I  walk  Broadway,  I  see  womans 
not  so  pretty  nor  smart  as  me  come  out  of  beautiful  restau- 
rants and  theaters  and  step  into  taxicabs  and  limouzines. 
And  I  zink  about  that  lazee  fat  womans  I  lace  up  when  I  am 
maid.  little  fool  Sonetehka,'  I  say  to  myself.  'You  go 
throw  yourself  in  river  if  you  not  smart  enough  to  live  soft, 
too.'  And  zen,  when  ze  man  what  own  ze  factory  start  make 
love  to  me,  I  doan'  say,  'Go  way ;  don't  dare  you  touch  me/ 
I  make  believe  I  like  'im  touch  me,  I  get  him  give  me 
pretty  clothes,  I  get  him  lend  me  money — I  promise  every- 
sing  and  zen,  when  I  get  what  I  want,  I  doan'  give  nuzzing. 
And  once  I  get  pretty  clothes  and  some  money  from  'im;  I 
find  plenty  more  mens.  And  I  learn  tricks.  And  I  live  like 
ladee  too — nice  and  soft." 

She  laughed  and  showed  her  little  teeth.  "I  teach  'er,  too — 
Annie  Eunice.  I  sajr — doan'  be  big  fools.  You  'ave  to  play 
tricks — you  'ave  to  fool  people.  So  she  smile  and  smile  in- 
stead of  looking  'ard  and  'arsh,  and  man  zink  when  she  go  out 
wiz  zem  she  fall  for  zem.  And  zey  give  her  big  tips — dollar, 
'keep  ze  change' — and  when  drunk  men  throw  down  ten  dol- 
lars one  day  I  say,  'Doan'  give  change.'  And  I  make  her  zat 
she  doan',  and  now  many  drunk  men  throw  down  money  and 
doan'  get  change  and  uzzer  men  forget  how  much  and  she  say, 
'  'Ere's  your  change,'  and  give  zem  dollar  change  for  five  dol- 
lar and  all  zat  sort  of  sing." 

"She's  a  smart  girl,  all  right,"  approved  Beau.     Arnold 


The  Gay  Life  193 

winced.  But  what  difference  between  Beau's  "smart  girl" 
and  Waldemar's  "good  business" — between  Arnold's  hold-up 
and  her  "hold-out"?  Yet,  he  hated  to  think  of  her  at  such 
tricks.  Some  reflection  of  his  thoughts  must  have  shown  in 
his  eyes. 

"W'ich  you  t'ink  best?"  asked  Sonetchka,  indignantly  ob- 
serving this,  "be  cripple  or  go  blin'?  You  make  me  seeck. 
Wat  you  do  zat  so  'onest  ?" 

"I'll  bet,"  said  Pink  in  an  assured  tone,  "that  he's  doing 
the  public  himself  if  he'd  on'y  own  up.  I'd  like  to  see  any- 
body be  honest  nowadays  unless  he's  very  lucky — in  these  big- 
time  cities  anyhow — that  is,  and  live  decent." 

"That's  what  I've  been  thinking  for  a  couple  of  months," 
returned  Arnold  reflectively.  "Even  in  the  newspaper  busi- 
ness we  had  to  print  ads  for  quack  medicines,  lying  real- 
estate,  rotten  personals — and  had  to  keep  ugly  stories  about 
department  stores  out  of  the  news  or  they'd  take  their  ads 
out — and  had  to  wink  at  Tammany  because  it  was  Democratic. 
But  my  city  editor  got  mighty  virtuous  when  I  kept  something 
out  for  a  Republican  candidate — that's  how  I  lost  my  job  and 
landed  where  you  found  me,  Miss  Sonetchka/' 

"And — you're,  back  pencil-pushing  now  ?"  asked  Pink,  who 
had  not  been  confidential  from  any  love  of  sociological  discus- 
sion. This  well-groomed,  good-looking  fellow  could  assist 
him  in  his  line — if  he  chose. 

Arnold  told  of  his  present  occupation.  "About  that  you're 
certainly  right,"  he  said.  "I  guess  "Waldemar's  responsible 
for  more  drug  fiends  than  any  place  in  the  city.  The  way 
they  sell  it  wholesale  to  these  little  pedlers.  .  .  .  John 
Waldemar's  a  Congressman  and  a  millionaire.  A  few  months 
ago  I  wouldn't  have  taken  a  job  there,  but  now — it  was  either 
slaving  or  starving — " 

"Waldemar's— "  said  Pink  slowly. 

He  had  been  sunk  in  deep  abstraction.    Now  he  raised  his 


194  God's  Man 

head.  "I  got  you — Waldemar's-— don't  yon  remember,  Beau 
—old  Mitt-and-a-Half  talking?"  The 'light  of  recognition 
came  to  Beau.  He  leaned  eagerly  forward : 

'"Whafs  this  whisper  ahout  gitting  all  the  gum  you  want 
at  Waldemar's?" 

Arnold  needed  no  glossary  this  time.  "Why?"  he  asked 
grimly,  pulling  down  his  shirt-cuff;  "can  I  book  your  order?" 

"Wait  a  minute/'  returned  Pink,  as,  the  orchestra  retiring 
for  a  rest,  his  turn  at  entertaining  came.  "Beau,  phone  Mitt- 
and-a-Half  and  Mother.  You  know  what  they  said  the  other 
night.  .  .  ." 

"Tell  Miss  Chasserton  I'm  waiting  for  her  to  get  off  duty, 
too,"  added  Arnold;  but  Sonia,  evidently  considering  it  her 
right  to  impart  this  news,  had  hurried  ahead ;  so  that  Arnold 
was  left  alone,  listening  to  the  rapid  staccato  rag-time  that 
the  Cagey  Kid  began  to  "beat  outa  the  box/'  as  he  phrased  it. 

Pink's  piano-playing  suggested  Hogarthian  pictures — full- 
breasted,  short-skirted,  ox-eyed  females,  garish  color,  loud 
drunken  laughter.  Pink's  was  only  a  slight  improvement  on 
the  sort  of  performance  for  which  such  places  kept  on  hand 
unhealthy-looking  youths  with  cheap  Virginia  cigarettes  per- 
manently attached  to  their  lower  lips,  glasses  of  beer  within 
easy  reach,  a  hypodermic  syringe  in  their  hip  pockets,  or  a 
"lay-out"  in  the  basement,  and  a  friend  who  asked,  "Dearie, 
won't  you  stake  the  Professor?" 

But  those  were  low  dives.  This  was  Sydenham's !  There 
were  jungle-beasts;  here  was  Bandar-log  with  thin  features 
and  slender  shapely  bodies.  .  .  .  Yet  their  faces  lighted 
up  with  the  same  barbaric  emotions  that  had  inspired  such 
tunes,  their  bodies  swayed  to  the  same  sensuous  rhythm. 

"This  is  Madman's  Lane,"  thought  Arnold  soberly. 

There  was  a  girl  barely  sixteen,  not  of  the  Blue  Book  crowd, 
truly — their  conventions  did  save  a  girl  for  supper-places 
until  she  had  been  a  debutante — and  they  did  insist  on  the 


The  Gay  Life  195 

shallow  safeguard  of  chaperons — but  of  decent  folk;  probably 
a  daughter  to  a  prosperous  tradesman  or  head  bookkeeper; 
and  there  she  danced,  a  tigerish  sensuousness  in  her  half- 
closed  eyes  and  in  those  of  her  almost  equally  youthful 
partner.  The  end  of  that  evening  was  as  plain  as  if  they  had 
shouted  their  intentions  aloud. 

As  this  couple  swayed  past  Arnold  he  could  hear  them  sing- 
ing softly  the  words  to  Pink's  tune.  This  was  the  lad  who 
had  requested  it,  the  words  being  quite  familiar  to  everybody ; 
published  in  this  same  city  that  had  jailed  the  performers  of 
the  work  of  one  of  the  world's  greatest  playwrights. 

"But  it  put  the  blame  for  immorality  where  it  belongs," 
thought  Arnold ;  "and  that's  the  last  thing  hypocrites  want — 
things  called  by  their  right  names.  Give  them  the  off-color 
suggestion  and  the  snicker  up  the  sleeve.  .  .  ." 

Pink  plunged  on  with  his  brothel  classics ;  his  next  a  great 
favorite  in  scarlet  society.  .  .  .  One  who  knew  could 
imagine  Pink  sliding  out  the  words  from  that  corner  of  the 
mouth  that  held  the  cigarette. 

"Frankie  and  Johnnie  were  sweethearts.     .     .     ." 

The  sixteen-year-old  girl  and  her  escort  seemed  to  know 
that  one,  too,  although  the  rest  of  it  was  too  unsightly  to 
permit  of  publication.  Arnold  tried  to  forget  the  possibility 
of  her  pupilage  in  such  knowledge,  and,  turning,  observed 
another  girl  scarcely  older,  posing  in  imitation  of  a  former 
"parlor  girl,"  now  a  vaudeville  star — and  tempting  an  in- 
genuous-looking youth,  her  partner. 

Could  that  woman  of  forty-five,  wife  of  a  celebrated  cor- 
poration-lawyer, easily  recognized  from  her  many  published 
photographs,  realize  the  sort  of  stuff  to  which  she  was  danc- 
ing? How  would  she  like  the  words  printed  with  her  name 
in  Sunday's  "society"  column  ?  .  .  . 

He  saw  her  join  a  party  where,  disregarding  the  champagne 
•a  the  table,  another  woman  in  a  daring  Doueet  gown  was 


196  God's  Man 

drinking  whisky  pegs  and  lighting  fresh  cigarettes  on  the 
butts  of  those  consumed. 

"Why  should  he  notice  all  this  to-night,  when  it  had  been 
going  on  all  around  him  since  he  began  patronizing  cabarets  ? 
Bertie  did  the  same  thing  with  her  cigarettes — a  sort  of  end- 
less chain.  There  was  no  good  pretending.  He  knew  well 
enough — Velvet  Voice.  He  resented  her  presence  among 
such  people,  Blue  Books  and  ancestry  or  no.  .  .  . 

Pink  dashed  into  another  song  suggested  by  a  youth  with 
vivid  jewelry.  Observing  the  attention  of  the  patrons,  he 
motioned  to  certain  other  young  Semites,  who  began  to  shout 
hoarsely  for  the  author  of  that  sensational  turkey-trot,  "I 
Don't  Want  to  Be  Loved,  Just  Like  Me  in  a  Regular  Way." 

It  appeared,  curiously  enough,  that  the  motioner  was  he. 
He  bowed  and  was  popularly  supposed  to  blush. 

"Song — song/'  shouted  the  "boosters,"  their  horny  hands 
colliding  with  the  sound  of  pistol-shots — undesired  publicity. 
But  Pink  and  the  cafe  manager  were  to  be  observed  urging 
the  famous  youth  to  consider  his  duty  to  the  public,  the  homy- 
handed  ones  posing  as  simple  melody-loving  private  citizens. 

The  song  was  sung.  It  suggested  that  if  a  "spoony  Coney" 
railroad  could  only  have  a  tunnel  fifty  miles  long,  .  .  . 
"my  favorite  child's  name  is  Matilda,"  and  it  was  sung  with 
all  possible  grins  and  shrugs.  The  boosters  joined  in  at  the 
second  chorus.  By  the  fourth  repetition  wine-flushed  youths 
shouted  it  with  loud  laughs  and  arch  glances  at  their  female 
companions  and  emphasizing  its  most  suggestive  line. 

Leaving  them  to  their  chorus,  celebrated  composer  and 
"boosters"  went  their  way  further  to  advertise  genius,  and 
Beau  and  Sonetchka  returned  to  give  another  "refined  terp- 
sichorean"  entertainment — born  on  the  Barbary  Coast. 


The  Gay  Life  197 


II.  ON  THE  THRESHOLD  OF  SUBTERRANEA 

".  .  .  And  you  like  it?"  Arnold  asked,  frowning.  Vel- 
vet Voice  nodded  with  a  certain  defiant  gaiety.  "My  God !" 
he  commented — "my  God!" — but  a  "my  God"  of  helpless 
scorn — no  drama  in  it. 

"Why  not?"  she  wished  to  know. 

"You  mustn't  mind  her,"  said  Pink  tolerantly.  "All  these 
dames  are  the  same  when  they  first  hit  the  bright  lights. 
They  go  plumb  dotty.  They're  only  women,  you  know,"  he 
added  tolerantly,  as  if  that  explained  any  folly. 

"And  you — you  smart,  Jiein — you  big  smart  fellow — know 
everything  ?"  asked  Sonetchka. 

"If  you  don't  know  that,  you  don't  know  anything,"  an- 
swered Pink.  "Forty  million  times  over  I  tell  you  what  a 
lucky  little  skirt  you  are  to  have  me  take  the  trouble  to  wise 
you  up.  I  dunno  what  I  do  it  for,  I'm  sure — " 

The  restaurant  in  which  they  were  having  supper  was  as 
different  as  possible  from  the  "Cafe  de  Paris" — quiet  after 
Sydenham's  noise,  and  for  good  reasons — its  patrons  having 
learned  it  was  wiser  to  communicate  their  sort  of  conversa- 
tion in  guarded  tones  that  did  not  reach  any  not  concerned. 
It  was  Chinese,  the  cleanly  kitchen  in  full  sight,  with  its 
polished  copper-pans  and  brightly  shining  stove,  the  res- 
taurant walls  hung  with  tasseled  scrolls  and  Japanese  prints 
of  whiskered  ogres  and  oblique-eyed  angels.  Most  of  its  fre- 
quenters, quietly  but  expensively  dressed,  and  seemingly  above 
the  average  intelligence,  had  been  pointed  out  to  Arnold  and 
Velvet  Voice  as  well-known  specialists  in  check-raising,  wire- 
less wire-tapping,  "the  match,"  "the  pay-off"  and  cards — one 
extremely  pretty  girl  as  having  been  arrested  fourteen  times 
and  never  convicted. 


198  God's  Man 

"Just  give  her  a  jury — a  heavy-headed  jury — and  she's  as 
safe  as  if  she  was  in  God's  hip  pocket,"  Pink  had  said,  proud 
of  the  intimacy  her  greeting  of  him  had  implied.  "One  smart 
little  girl,  go  bet  your  shirt." 

"Smart,"  sniffed  Sonetchka,  "smart  womens  don't  get  ar- 
rested fourteen  times — I  never  get  arrested,  me." 

"You  never  had  no  big  ideas — no  ambition,"  explained 
Pink.  Arnold  had  cut  in  with  Velvet  Voice  to  prevent  an 
embittered  answer. 

"In  a  way,"  Pink  went  on,  referring  to  the  limitations  of 
Velvet  Voice  (and  of  women  generally),  "in  a  way,  women 
never  git  more'n  haff  wise.  I've  had  'em  all — all  kinds — and 
they'll  always  fall  for  the  front — the  show-off — the  clothes 
and  the  lights  and  people  gettin'  an  eyeful  of  their  new  hat — 
the  admiration  stuff.  They  like  restaurants  and  theaters  and 
crowds  because  they  think  one  hundred  and  one  out  of  a  hun- 
dred men  are  wishing  they  knew  them,  and  then  go  home  and 
look  at  their  wives  or  girls  and  say,  'Oh,  hell,'  sure !  So  they 
do  better  on  the  stage  than  men — think  just  standin'  there 
not  sayin'  nothing  is  giving  a  thousand  guys  a  treat  and  mak- 
ing a  thousand  dames  wish  they  had  their  taste  in  dress,  and 
go  home  and  copy  their  hat." 

"Oh,  shut  up,"  said  the  infuriated  Sonia,  reaching  for  the 
nearest  missile;  and  Pink  masked  prudence  by  loud  laughter 
and  the  lighting  of  a  cigarette. 

"No  wonder  the  little  girl  likes  it,"  Beau  began  to  explain, 
winking  at  Velvet  Voice;  "who  wouldn't,  with  a  little  ten- 
thousand-dollar  go-cart  sent  around  every  afternoon  to  ride 
her  around  again,  Willie.  Special  flower-shop  running  just 
to  keep  her  in  roses,  too — didn't  notice  those  American  beau- 
ties on  her  switchboard?  She's  got  a  special  room  full 
home.  And  pipe  the  hock-rock  on  the  pinky — "  Arnold 
glanced  as  Beau  pointed  and  saw  on  her  hand  a  marquise,  a 
pure  white  triangle  edged  by  tiny  flat  rubies.  Velvet  Voice 
smiled,  almost,  it  seemed,  purred. 

"Name  of  Spedden,"  Beau  elucidated.     "And  I  guess  she 


The  Gay  Life  199 

don't  hate  him  any,  'cause  when  we  offered  to  let  him  into  a 
little  friendly  game  she  put  in  the  saxi." 

"Why  should  I  risk  having  him  suspect  my  friends  cheat 
at  cards?"  asked  Velvet  Voice  indignantly.  "You  couldn't 
win  as  much  in  a  night  as  he'd  give  me  freely  if  I  asked 
him."  At  which  Pink  interrupted  with  a  roar.  "Our  little 
Eunice — Elsie  in  the  Great  City — ho !  ha !  hee !  Rich,  ain't 
it,  boy?"  he  asked  Arnold. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  have  a  good  time  like  everybody  else?" 
demanded  Velvet  Voice  angrily.  "Didn't  I  put  in  ten  years 
not  knowing  any  better  ?  .  .  .  And  if  you  could  see  what 
taps  on  my  switchboard  with  dimes  and  tries  to  tell  me  to  get 
numbers  for  'em  like  they  heard  some  actress  say,  'Home, 
James.'  .  .  .  Am  I  going  to  take  impudence  from 
dressed-up  minxes  all  my  life?  It  isn't  as  though  people 
respected  you  more,  knowing  you  could  get  all  the  clothes 
you  wanted,  but  prefer  to  work.  They  just  think  you're  a 
plain  fool.  And  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  they're  right.  It's 
a  girl's  own  fault  if  she  gets  overworked  and  starved  in  fac- 
tories and  stores.  We've  got  no  right  to  be  there.  There's 
only  one  business  we're  cut  out  for,  and  that's — men." 

Several  times  Arnold  had  been  at  the  point  where  he  felt 
he  must  interrupt  savagely,  but  now  she  had  stated  her  case, 
he  wondered  what  he  should  say.  All  his  remonstrances 
would  sound  Sunday-schoolish  in  such  a  place,  among  such 
people ;  and,  moreover,  how  they  would  disagree  with  the  new 
set  of  ideas  he  had  himself  adopted ! 

It  was  only  convention  that  yearned  for  speech.  The  old 
order:  man  to  do  as  he  pleases,  women  to  do  as  he  pleases, 
too;  and  if  he  pleases  for  her  to  attain  some  standard  of  in- 
credible virtue  she  must  pretend  to  be  attaining  it.  Recog- 
nizing this  unfairness,  Arnold  saw  that  he  should  desire  noth- 
ing of  her  he  did  not  himself  approve;  and  Quinn's  scornful 
"poor  but  honest"  recurred  to  him  and  his  own  acceptance  of 
the  negative.  .  .  .  Nevertheless,  he  did  not  want  her  to 
accept  rich  men's  favors.  It  was  all  so  highly  perplexing  he 


200  God's  Man 

did  not  remonstrate  at  all,  but  left  it  to  the  indefatigable 
Pink. 

"T hat's  all  right,  Annie  Eunice,"  said  that  young  gentle- 
man, "you  got  the  right  idea  all  right  and  the  wrong  one,  too. 
Get  all  you  can  out  of  these  rich  fellows,  but  don't  double-up 
with  none  permanently.  They  ain't  our  breed  any  more'n 
cats  are  dogs.  They're  our  natural-born  enemies — everything 
they  think  is  jest  opposite  what  we  think.  Get  his  money — 
all  you  can — and  then  hand  him  his  hat." 

Velvet  Voice  went  crimson.  "If  you're  suggesting — "  she 
began. 

"Now,  ain't  that  like  a  little  sucker  broad  ?"  asked  Pink 
wearily;  "willing  to  marry  a  rich  guy  for  his  dough  and 
divorce  him  soon's  ever  she  gits  the  chance,  but  sore  at  the 
idea  of  cutting  out  the  ring  stuff — anything  so  long's  it  looks 
respectable.  Jest  as  you  said" — he  nodded  to  Arnold — "a 
lot  of  sheep  willing  to  let  people  do  anything  to  'em  'cause 
somebody  says  it's  legal.  She  hates  the  sight  of  him,  but 
she  tries  to  kid  us  she  don't  so's  she  can  kid  herself  marriages 
are  made  in  Heaven.  Let's  not  talk  any  more  about  it.  This 
sucker  stuff  makes  my  neck  tired." 

This  Cagey  Kid  seldom  misjudged  his  man.  He  had  been 
living  by  judging  men — and  women — some  few  years,  and 
though  Arnold's  talk  was  not  theirs,  Pink  had  recognized  a 
common  hatred  of  hypocrisy  and  love  for  rebellion  in  the  last 
of  the  L'Hommedieus — instincts  that  were  surely  driving  him 
to  a  life  not  unlike  their  own.  So  Pink  had  admitted  him 
into  his  confidences,  for  he  had  an  instinctive  feeling  Arnold 
was  to  be  a  highly  profitable  adviser  in  those  higher  forms  of 
larceny  to  which  Pink's  ambitious  soul  yearned.  Besides, 
there  was  the  matter  on  which  Beau  had  telephoned. 

"Tell  him  what  Mother  and  old  Mitt-and-a-Half  said,"  he 
directed  his  friends.  Beau  glanced  discreetly  at  Velvet  Voice. 
"You  don't  need  to  mention  what — he's  jerry  to  that — hand 
him  the  proposition." 

"A  friend  of  ours — I'll  write  the  name,"  and  having  done 


The  Gay  Life  201 

so,  he  crumpled  up  the  Japanese  crepe-paper  napkin  and 
pocketed  it,  "wants  a  thousand  pounds.  To  make  the  other 
stuff — you  know — and  peddle  it  by  the  can.  The  more  gum, 
the  more  profit — so  he'll  make  it  worth  your  while — a  dollar 
on  the  pound  to  you,  and  'ull  be  'round  to-morrow  and  give 
it  to  you,  if  it's  all  right.  Don't  forgit  the  name.  You 
oughtn't  to — it's  funny  enough." 

"What  a  game  that's  going  to  be  after  they  put  the  lid  on 
next  week,"  said  Pink,  his  eyes  sparkling.  "Some  chance 
for  the  big  money  there  if  a  man  has  a  little  capital.  The 
Customs'll  look  fine  trying  to  keep  it  out  all  along  the  Cana- 
dian border,  the  Mexican  border,  and  the  East  and  West 
coasts — what  a  chance !  And  there'll  be  thousands  at  it. 
Think  how  few  of  those  little  cans  it  takes  to  make  a  thousand 
dollars — thirty  or  forty  at  the  new  price — that's  all.  I  got 
haff  a  mind  to  take  a  chance  myself  with  that  kind  of 
profit — " 

"Some  game,  all  right,"  agreed  Beau,  his  face  also  alight. 
As  for  Arnold,  he  was  thinking  of  the  enormous  profits  the 
Waldemar  company  would  make  on  their  new  deal — even  he 
with  his  little  thousand  stood  to  quadruple  it.  If  only  he 
had  more  invested !  Suddenly  he  turned  and  saw  that  Velvet 
Voice  was  regarding  him  queerly,  wistfully,  in  a  way  that 
hinted  to  Arnold  that  she  might  not  consider  any  millionaire 
if  he  were  able  to  give  her  even  one-hundredth  the  things  Mr. 
Spedden  could. 

He  must  begin  to  make  money;  he  had  wasted  enough  time, 
and  without  money  the  things  one  wanted  one  never  got. 
Pink's  suggestion  of  smuggling  in  the  stuff,  the  high  profits, 
fascinated  him.  He  was  in  debt  for  a  good  half  of  his  win- 
nings, but  this  thousand  dollars  Enoch  Apricott  would  give 
as  a  bonus  for  a  thousand  pounds — Mother  Mybus,  really,  as 
he  was  to  know — would  nearly  repair  that  damage.  If  he 
could  reinvest  at  the  same  figures — a  can  and  a  half  came 
from  a  pound — even  at  thirty  dollars  the  can,  he  would  be  on 
the  road  to  wealth.  Then  more  like  investments  and  more 


202  God's  Man 

and  he  could  return  to  Havre  de  Grace,  buy  a  farm  he  knew 
of  and  be  a  country  gentleman.  He  salved  his  conscience  by 
explaining  to  it  that  any  harm  he  might  do  now  he  would 
more  than  repair — then ;  go  to  Congress  to  follow  Waldemar ; 
stand  for  good  government  in  local  politics,  protective  meas- 
ures against  more  factory-building  .  .  .  what  not  ? 

"It  isn't  a  man's  fault  going  wrong  in  these  big  cities,"  he 
said  aloud,  wanting  the  corroboration  of  others  to  administer 
the  final  opiate  to  that  stubborn  conscience;  "how  can  he  do 
anything  else — unless  he  wants  to  see  the  unscrupulous  and 
ignorant  get  everything,  and  himself  pushed  and  hustled 
about  by  the  very  damn  fools  he's  trying  to  help.  The  only 
thing  to  do  is  to  get  money  enough  to  get  out — thaf  s  the  one 
excuse  a  decent  fellow  has  for  being  here.  .  .  ." 

"Hear,  hear/'  applauded  Cagey  and  Phony  Kids.  Velvet 
Voice  was  silent,  viewing  him  as  if  she,  too,  would  like  to 
remonstrate,  but  realizing  that  her  own  proceedings  did  not 
justify  it. 

"I  on'y  wish  I  was  big  womans,"  said  Sonetchka  greedily. 
"I  go  make  trips  to  Canada  and  Mexico  and  bring  back  cans 
hid  in  my  clothes.  But — me — zey  see  a  lump  as  big  as  a 
peanut  .  .  .  too  bad." 

III.  THE  ATTIC  HAS  HOPE  OF  ARNOLD 

"That  young  feller  is  all  right,"  said  Pink  to  Mother 
Mybus,  Nikko  and  Apricott  later  that  night,  Mother  and 
Nikko  having  lumbered  up  to  the  Attic  to  hear  the  gossip  of 
the  baker's  dozen  there  gathered;  "he  oughta  be  pie  for  you, 
Mother,  once  we  git  him  hooked.  He's  got  class — not  jest 
clothes  and  small-talk  like  me  and  Beau — but  real  class.  You 
oughta  hear  him  spiel — Xick,  you  and  Mitt-and-a-Haff  'ur 
in  the  cripples'  class.  .  .  ." 

He  repeated,  in  the  vernacular,  some  of  Arnold's  revolu- 
tionary propaganda.  Nikko  rubbed  his  moist  hands  stealth- 
ily. "They  ain't  clever,"  he  said,  "not  clever,  no !  these  pig 


The  Gay  Life  203 

plutocrats.  Not  even  taking  care  that  such  smart  young 
fellows  of  their  own  class  don't  join  with  us.  .  .  ." 

"Which  is  what  we  need — leaders,"  growled  Enoch  Apri- 
cott.  "Leaders — just  that  kind.  They  don't  listen  to  us — 
watch  the  difference  in  the  army  between  the  officer  out  of 
the  ranks  and  the  gentleman  born.  The  soldiers  stand  for 
anything  the  gentleman  orders  and  growl  at  the  simplest 
ones  the  other  gives.  .  .  .  We've  got  to  get  the  gentle- 
men, too.  They'll  teach  the  flies  to  sting — sting  hard,  gentle- 
men will." 

"But  steadily,  slowly,  it  grows,"  chuckled  Mkko,  polishing 
his  useless  spectacles,  one  of  his  many  little  subterfuges  for 
pleasing  Mother.  "It  grows  big,  and  when  gentlemen  join, 
the  appointed  time's  shortened  by  many  years.  .  .  .  How 
can  we  make  him  our  friend,  young  Pink — one  of  us — grad- 
ually, gently?" 

"You  don't  bring  him  here,  mind  you,  Mr.  Pink,  nor  Mr. 
Beau — not  until  you're  sure  of  him,"  warned  Mother,  fon- 
dling her  huge  tabby-cat.  "What  he  do  to  get  poor — drink — 
cards — girls  ?" 

Pink  shook  his  head.  "Eeg'lar  guy,  this,"  he  said  scorn- 
fully, "reg'lar  guys  don't  fall  for  sucker  games,  .  .  . 
though  he's  stuck  on  young  Lipton's  sister  over  there."  He 
nodded  toward  Hans  Chasserton,  sitting  cross-legged  beside 
the  bunk  where  Doctor  Tack  was  lying.  A  childlike  curiosity 
concerning  the  smokers'  activities  had  developed  in  him  and 
he  could  watch  them  unblinkingly  by  the  hour,  seemingly 
fascinated.  He  did  not  identify  himself  by  Pink's  descrip- 
tion. 

"And  there's  another  one  oughtta  come  in  handy  some  day 
— her,"  said  Beau.  "You  oughta  see  how  she  gets  away  with 
the  soup-and-fish  effects — there  ain't  a  dressier  dame  along 
the  Lane.  If  her  and  him  ever  started  working  with  us  we'd 
buy  the  City  Hall  for  a  branch  office.  .  .  .  But  I  told 
you  how  she  put  in  the  knock  when  we  offered  her  fifty-fifty 
to  let  us  take  that  Spedden  guy?" 


204  God's  Man 

"Still,  she  likes  him"  Pink  averred.  "Arnold— she's  just 
dead  sore  on  those  ten  years  she  put  in  sweating  and  she'll 
join  us  out  some  day  when  this  Spedden  makes  a  bad  break. 
Jest  now  he's  playing  safe;  getting  her  used  to  taxig  every 
afternoon  and  charge  accounts  for  clothes  and  swell  kipping 
at  cut  rates  in  the  shed  he  owns.  "When  he  thinks  she  jest 
can't  breathe  without  a  maid  to  help  her,  he'll  say,  ain't  he 
got  something  coming  from  her?  No  man  with  a  face  like 
his'n  never  got  into  a  bank  as  no  philanthropist,  less'n  he 
kicked  his  way  in  with  a  jimmy.  .  .  .  And  then  she'll 
call  on  us — how  kin  she  git  back  at  him,  and  we'll  show  her." 
He  grinned. 

"And  once  she's  been  shown  and  sees  how  easy  it  is,  she'll 
fall  easier  next  time,"  supplemented  Beau.  "The  same  way 
with  him — Arnold." 

"I've  got  a  place  like  this — yes,"  they  heard  Hans  Chasser- 
ton  chuckle  shrilly,  drowning  Mother's  comment.  "Better'n 
this,  though.  Thousand  Chinamen  fanning  a  thousand 
gals.  Bought  it  off  a  big  Chink  with  specs  like  his'n."  He 
indicated  ISTikko.  "Ye-es.  Wanted  me  to  go  to  China  and 
run  the  King's  car,  but  Mr.  Quivvers  give  me  a  thousand  not 
to.  Ye-es.  Oh,  ye-es.  Didn't  see  my  sister  when  you  was 
out,  did  you  ?  I  got  her  name  written  down  here.  I'll  show 
it  to  you."  He  drew  nearer  the  bull-necked  Heidelberg  doc- 
tor of  the  sword-slashed  face,  showing  him  with  an  air  of 
mystery  a  dirty  envelope,  on  which  Annie  Eunice's  full  name 
was  written.  "Ain't  she  pretty?"  asked  Hans,  touching  the 
name. 

"Sit  down  and  keep  still,"  commanded  Apricott  harshly, 
and  the  innocent-eyed  Hans  obeyed,  trembling.  "What  did 
he  say  about  the  gum — this  Arnold — young  fellow?  Did 
Mother's  dollar  a  pound  fetch  him  ?"  Beau  explained.  Apri- 
cott was  to  have  official  physician's  paper  printed  in  five 
names — "Doctor  Cagey  Kid,  Doctor  Phony  Kid,  Doctor  Mitt- 
and-a-Haff,  Mrs.  Doctor  Mother  Mybus,  Herr  Doctor  Nick 
Vitchovitchski — any  monakers  you  like,  but  different  ad- 


The  Gay  Life  205 

dresses.  Write  for  two  hundred  pounds  each.  They  can't  take 
a  chance  letting  anybody  have  more  than  that."  Apricott's 
face  fell.  To  what  five  addresses  could  he  trust  having  the 
precious  stuff  sent?  His  expression  interpreted  hy  Pink,  it 
was  explained  that  this  was  but  a  subterfuge.  The  thousand 
pounds  would  be  shipped  directly  to  the  Inn.  "Those  phony 
letter-heads  are  only  for  the  Federal  gees  examining  their 
books.  .  .  ." 

"If  your  Arnold  will  do  that,  he  will  do  more,"  said  Nikko, 
writing  furiously  with  his  forefinger  a  horoscope  of  Arnold's 
future;  "slowly,  surely.  Only  the  excuse  is  needed.  Make 
friends  with  him,  young  Pink,  but  steadily,  certainly;  do  not 
shock  him.  Gradually,  cautiously.  The  dose  of  poison  that 
kills  can  be  spread  over  the  hours  and  save.  Mother  is  a 
woman,  I  am  blind,  Apricott  was  in  slavery  too  long  to  lead — 
and  all  the  while  the  business  grows — the  rebellion  grows — 
silently,  slowly.  Apricott  has  it;  only  leaders  are  needed; 
those  in  the  enemy's  confidence.  As  your  Arnold  is.  If  you 
need  money  to  spend  entertaining  him,  Mother  will  give  it — 
eh,  Catherine  Borisovna?" 

And  Mother,  behind  her  closed  eyes  seeing  a  greater  busi- 
ness, a  monopoly  in  theft,  one  so  strong  it  could  crush  compe- 
tition, yet  allow  her  to  doze  by  the  fire  while  one  greater  than 
she  fulfilled  her  dreams,  was  willing  it  should  be  called  a  re- 
bellion or  anything  else,  so  long  as  it  accomplished  those 
results. 

"I  was  smoking  myself,"  came  in  Hans'  high  shrill  voice 
again.  "Old  Lipton  was  with  us.  Ye-es.  Oh,  ye-es.  On 
board  his  yacht  I  was.  A  thousand  cans  and  forty  pipes. 
Eich,  ain't  he,  to  have  all  that  ?  I  drove  Mr.  Quivvers'  motor- 
boat  over  to  London  yestiddy,  too.  The  King  was  out,  and 
we  had  to  be  back  for  supper.  Everything  was  all  greasy  and 
I  give  the  car  plenty  of  oats.  But  I  says  to  Mr.  Quiwers, 
always  treat  a  car  with  kindness.  I  hate  oats.  .  .  ." 

"Funny  how  he  gits  all  those  things  mixed  up — oats! 
They  must  V  fed  him  on  oatmeal  up  at  that  joint,  I  guess. 


206  God's  Man 

And  this  guy  Quivvers  going  abroad;  and  him  telling  him 
before  the  accident  to  treat  the  car  right.  ...  I  wonder 
what  he  means,  though,  when  he  pulls  that  'everything  was 
greasy'  stuff." 

"Salve  and  stuff  on  his  broken  nut,  half-wit,"  explained 
Pink  with  the  air  of  one  imparting  polite  information.  "And 
the  Lipton  part's  easy  enough — his  one  idea  was  to  own  a  cat- 
boat  and  sail  it  around;  they  come  from  down  Chesapeake 
Bay,  him  and  Annie  Eunice.  .  .  .  Poor  sucker!  What 
a  rat  that  fellow  Quivvers  is.  I'd  like  to  get  an  eyeful  of 
him  once.  I'd  bend  a  paving-stone  over  his  beezer.  .  .  ." 
He  was  going  on  to  further  extreme  measures,  but  Apricott 
broke  in  upon  him  excitedly. 

"Better  than  that.  Sting  him.  Do  what  he  done.  Take 
him.  Trim  him.  Hey?"  He  laughed  in  his  dry,  noiseless 
way.  Nikko  nodded  and  put  a  hand  on  Pink's  knee. 

"That's  for  your  Mr.  Arnold,"  said  Mother  hoarsely.  "Eh, 
my  Nicholas,"  she  added  in  Slavonic.  "He  loves  this  girl. 
Would  he  not  be  glad  to  harm  those  who  harmed  her  ?" 

"You  see  my  children,"  said  Nikko,  nodding  and  inter- 
preting, "this  man  Quivvers  comes  some  day  to  your  res- 
taurant— all  New  York  comes  there.  And  Catherine  Boris- 
ovna  means  that  you  will  have  your  Miss  Eunice  and  your 
Mr.  Arnold  both  to  help  you  then." 

"And  then  drain  him.  Suck  him  dry."  Apricott  beat 
his  hands  together  savagely.  "No  trash  about  not  taking  his 
last  dollar.  His  sort  take  ours.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  yes,  we  heard  all  that  before,"  interrupted  Pink,  irri- 
tated, "but  I'll  hand  it  to  you  for  your  first  idea.  Taking 
him's  better  than  beating  him  up — hurts  more.  .  .  ." 

"And  when  your  Arnold's  helped  you  once,  and  sees  how 
much  is  to  gain,  .  .  ."  Mother  licked  her  lips,  too.  "No 
difficulty  after  that.  And  he'll  think  up  better  things  for 
you  and  Mr.  Beau  to  do,  Mr.  Pink.  .  .  .  He'll  be  one 
of  us  then  and  he  can  be  brought  here.  I'll  give  you  each 
something  handsome  out  of  stock  the  day  that  hap- 


The  Gay  Life  207 

pens.     .     .     ."     And  she  waddled  off  down-stairs  before  she 
could  be  committed  to  anything  more  definite. 

"Guess  she's  right  at  that,"  said  Beau,  yawning,  "but  mean- 
while I've  been  talked  out  of  about  ten  pills  'at  belong  to  me. 
So  jest  you  knock  off  serving  yourself,  sucker,  and  remember 
you're  among  friends." 

IV.  ARNOLD  GIVES  UP  VELVET  VOICE  AND  HEARS  or  AN  OLD 
FRIEND 

Word  reached  Arnold  every  day  in  the  shape  of  sixteen-page 
letters  of  The  Stirrup-Cup,  which,  for  several  reasons — 
one.  that  Bobbie  ruined  a  leading  part — had  received  no  very 
enthusiastic  encomiums  up  state  and  in  the  Massachusetts 
manufacturing  towns  where  it  was  now  playing.  But  theaters 
must  be  filled  at  any  cost  in  days  of  warring  syndicates,  and 
so  long  as  Messrs.  King  and  Apelheimer  had  a  young  man 
responsible  for  company  losses  the  theater  managers  must 
stand  theirs  or  go  dark  for  the  week.  And,  as  New  York 
needed  attractions  also,  a  crowd  composed  of  Messrs.  K.  and 
G.  Marko,  the  booking-agents,  the  owner  of  the  Atlantic  thea- 
ter and  two  bright  young  writers  caught  young  and  put  on 
salary  and  at  dramatic  carpentry  and  repairing,  had  recently, 
viewed  the  production,  criticized,  censored  and  left  the  writers 
behind  to  correct.  It  appeared  their  first  suggestion  had 
been  to  cut  down  Bobbie's  part,  since  she  was  incapable  of 
interpreting  it  correctly,  but  Bobbie  had  made  Hugo  threaten 
to  withdraw  if  this  were  done. 

"Which  is  extremely  foolish  of  her,"  Bertie  wrote,  "because 
Hugo  is  losing  pots  of  money;  and  if  we  were  only  shaped 
up  we  might  make  a  hit  at  the  Atlantic  and  get  back  what 
he's  lost  and  more  besides.  .  .  ."  But  of  the  sixteen 
pages  daily  there  were  very  few  devoted  to  the  show,  many  to 
accusations  of  misconduct  with  other  women  and  despairing 
reiterations  of  undying  love.  "Why,  I  never  see  anybody  but 
Hugo  and  Bobbie,  and  I  have  no  end  of  friends  in  all  the 


208  God's  Man 

cities  where  we're  trouping;  and  they'd  be  only  too  glad  to 
have  me  out  to  dinner  and  supper  and  take  me  automobiling 
and  send  me  candy  and  flowers  and  all  that;  and  not  stop 
with  candy  and  flowers  either.  Why,  one  young  chap  in  this 
rery  town,  whose  father  left  him  a  fur-store,  wanted  to  give 
me  a  sable  coat — a  sable  one,  mind  you,  down  to  my  heels. 
And  I  suppose  you  know,  since  old  Gayton  came  up  to 
Rochester  for  the  opening  and  I  locked  my  door  on  him,  no 
check.  And  he  never  missed  a  week  for  over  two  years,  no 
matter  where  I  was.  So  little  Bertie  will  have  to  give  up 
her  cute  little  flat  and  sell  her  car ;  even  if  the  play's  a  hit  the 
car  will  have  to  go.  But  don't  tliink  I  care,  dearest  boy.  So 
long  as  I  know  you're  mine,  and  mine  only,  I'd  live  in  a  hut 
and  scrub  floors.  .  .  ." 

Which  had  the  effect  of  making  Arnold  highly  uncom- 
fortable. The  chains  were  tightening,  those  strongest  chains 
forged  by  the  weakest  hands,  by  absolute  submission,  by  un- 
asking  self-sacrifice.  Alberta  Arden  (what  her  real  name 
was  nobody  knew)  had  met,  for  the  first  time  in  her  experi- 
ence with  men,  one  whom  she  loved  deeply,  and  "there  is  no 
difference  in  women  when  that  happens,"  wrote  Arnold  in  his 
diary  about  this  time;  "they  want  nothing  except  the  man 
they  love.  But  they  do  not  pursue  him  as  artlessly  as  their 
sacrifices  seem  to  suggest.  They  know  sacrifices  are  their 
strongest  hold  upon  him;  if  they  could  come  to  him  in  rags, 
without  a  place  to  sleep  or  the  money  to  buy  a  meal,  and  prove 
conclusively  that  all  this  destitution  had  been  incurred  for  his 
sake,  they  would  do  so  gladly,  for  they  know  any  average  hon- 
orable man  with  a  conscience  would  be  their  bound  and  help- 
less slave  forever  after.  .  .  ." 

As  may  be  seen  from  this  Arnold  was  uneasy.  He  was 
beginning  to  understand  that  he  was  in  love  with  Velvet 
Voice,  and  yet — curious  as  it  may  seem  to  the  uninitiated — he 
would  read  Bertie's  insane  protestations  of  savage  devotion 
with  a  sort  of  half -ashamed  pride,  taking  up  one  of  her  numer- 
ous photographs  afterward  and  looking  at  her  pictured  beau- 


The  Gay  Life  209 

ties — hair,  eyes,  neck,  lithe  and  supple  form — with  a  quick- 
ening heart.  It  heightened  his  belief  in  himself  to  realize 
that  this  girl,  so  madly  desired  by  many,  loved  him  blindly. 
Thus,  when  hurt  by  the  refusal  of  Velvet  Voice  to  accompany 
him  in  preference  to  the  Spedden  person,  he  would,  on  his 
return  to  Beeckman  Place,  gaze  long  and  lovingly  at  Bertie's 
pictures  and  wish  her  home  again.  When  she  returned  she 
should  live  at  Beeckman  Place. 

But  when  Velvet  Voice  denied  Spedden,  Arnold  would  lie 
awake  half  the  night  wondering  how  he  could  write  grace- 
fully the  scoundrelly  hint  that  it  was  better  not  to  neglect  any 
good  friends,  and  wasn't  it  more  sensible  to  make  her  peace 
with  old  Gayton  that  the  weekly  check  might  once  more  ar- 
rive ?  But,  though  he  had  trained  himself  to  a  good  style  in 
prose,  he  could  never  find  the  right  words  in  which  to  write 
this;  so  it  went  unsaid  and  he  faced  his  shaving  mirror  of 
mornings  and  called  himself  a  coward  and  a  blackguard. 

Another  thing  that  combined  to  worry  him,  with  Archie's 
speculation,  was  the  draining  of  Hugo's  bank-account;  and 
the  fact  that  women  were  responsible  for  both  these  things 
gave  him  a  fancied  justification  for  ill-treating  Bertie,  for 
coolly  refusing  to  give  her  his  confidence  as  to  how  he  spent 
his  time  nor  any  assurance  of  continued  devotion.  Which 
made  Bertie  miserable  and  increased  her  mad  passion  for 
him. 

He  was  slipping  away  fast  from  Archie  and  Hugo,  whose 
slavish  subservience  to  their  women  was  the  sort  of  thing  for 
which  Arnold's  new  friends  had  the  largest  amount  of  scorn. 
Even  Mr.  Quinn,  at  home,  commenting  on  the  comedies  of 
the  daily  newspaper — he  found  only  comedy,  especially  in 
suicides  and  murders  on  account  of  women :  "Haff-civilized, 
that's  what  I  call  such  men,"  this  sage  would  pronounce. 
"With  a  dozen  females  to  every  regular  man." 

Arnold  was  living  now  in  the  first  stages  of  rebellion, 
which  gave  him  a  vast  contempt  for  the  world  at  large,  a 
frame  of  mind  that  had  made  Sir  Lucas  a  fighting  monk, 


210  God's  Man 

had  driven  the  Chevalier  Etienne  into  the  ranks  of  the  Hugue- 
not clergy;  which,  had  his  family  remained  in  France  for 
Revolutionary  days,  would  have  made  of  Arnold  a  Jacobin, 
a  minor  Voltaire  or  a  Tom  Paine  with  a  splendid  but  youth- 
ful "Age  of  Reason."  But  religion  no  longer  a  live  issue  in 
these  days,  he  must  seek  other  outlets  for  rebellion;  and  so 
found  it  among  those  who  were  turning  the  tables  by  preying 
on  the  rich.  He  even  forgave  Bobbie  for  her  treatment  of 
Hugo.  If  Waldemar,  Senior,  had  permitted  their  marriage 
she  would  have  been  a  devoted  mother  by  now. 

"There  is  a  period  between  puberty  and  maternity  during 
which  women  commit  most  of  their  cruelties,"  he  wrote, 
apropos  of  this,  "during  which  they  give  men  most  of  their 
misery.  Something  is  missing  and  they  seek  it  in  all  forms 
of  excesses,  in  unchecked  passion,  in  useless  extrava- 
gance. .  .  .  The  obvious  cure  for  which  is  for  the  man 
who  loves  them  to  see  that  they  have  a  child."  But  he  never 
allowed  himself  to  think  of  a  child  for  Bertie — the  bonds 
would  be  unbreakable  then.  And,  every  night,  he  was  up- 
stairs at  Sydenham's,  leaning  over  the  switchboard  and  urging 
Velvet  Voice  to  throw  off  Spedden  forever. 

It  was  plain  the  girl  was  sorely  tempted.  Arnold  did  not 
doubt  she  cared  for  him.  And  when  he  was  with  her  her 
icy  resolution  melted  into  water.  She  was  saved  only  by  the 
appearance  of  G.  Alexander  Spedden  himself,  a  great  bulk  of 
a  man,  a  mine-owner  and  promoter,  who  had  at  the  sight  of 
her  an  eager  hungry  look.  And  more  and  more,  in  the  pri- 
vacy of  her  own  thoughts  and  conversation  with  Sonetchka, 
she  realized  that  her  one  safety,  where  Arnold  was  concerned, 
was  to  bring  Spedden  to  the  point  of  proposing  marriage  as 
swiftly  as  possible. 

"Wat  he  do  for  you,  this  Arnold  ?"  Sonetchka  would  ask. 
"He  got  f eef ty  dollar  week — and  w'at  chance  for  much  more  ? 
Zen  some  day  he  maybe  lose  his  jhob  same  as  when  we  meet 
him,  and  zen  w'at?  Doan'  you  get  enough  to  be  poor  once? 
You  want  more?  Zis  million-dollar  man  he  marry  you  and 


The  Gay  Life  211 

give  you  beautiful  home  and  money  and  everything.  Zen  you 
can  see  your  Arnold  jus'  ze  same — he  be  your  sweet'eart — " 

"Stop,  Sonetchka,"  commanded  Velvet  Voice,  her  eyes 
blazing.  "You  think  I  would  do  a  thing  like  that!" 

The  Little  One  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "All  ze  big  people 
zey  do — kings  and  queens  and  million-dollar  people  and 
banns  in  my  country;  zey  doan'  marry  for  loof — zey  know 
loof — how  long  he  last?  Zey  marry  for  nice  'ome  and  plenty 
money.  Even  peasant  people,  if  zey  have  little  land,  zey 
marry  some  one  have  little  land,  too ;  zen  more  land,  zen  more 
next  time  till  the  family  gets  rich.  Doan'  you  be  beeg  fool." 

The  suggestion  that  this  arrangement  was  general  had  per- 
sisted with  Velvet  Voice,  and  one  night,  when  Arnold  was 
more  importunate  than  ever,  she  voiced  it.  What  had  he 
to  give  a  wife  ?  How  could  he  have  what  he  wanted  and  give 
her  anything?  .  .  .  Whereupon  Arnold  had  stormed 
out  of  Sydenham's  and  home,  where  he  wrote  Bertie  a  sur- 
prisingly affectionate  letter.  She  didn't  think  about  what  he 
could  give  her;  she  just  gave  herself,  gave  up  everything  and 
only  asked  for  love.  Well,  she  should  have  it,  poor  girl. 
Velvet  Voice  had  proved  herself  base  metal;  and  here,  for 
weeks,  his  comparison  had  been  unfavorable  to  poor  Bertie, 
when  she  was  really  the  superior. 

And  the  next  night  he  telephoned  Pink  and  Beau  he  would 
be  at  the  Chinese  Eestaurant,  but  that  he  was  not  coming  to 
Sydenham's  again. 

"Good  idea,"  said  Pink  when  they  met,  "why  waste  your 
money  in  a  sucker  joint?"  Then,  mindful  of  Mother's  ad- 
vice and  deeming  the  time  ripe,  "I'll  take  you  to  a  place  where 
you  can  have  some  real  fun.  Just  the  gang  and  their  girls. 
It's  due  to-morrow  nigbt — a  blow-off  one  girl's  giving  who's 
going  across  the  big  ditch — Europe.  She  and  her  fellow's 
just  grabbed  themselves  some  important  dough.  .  .  .  She 
got  one  of  these  respectable  married  millionaires  to  write  her 
crazy  letters  saying  he'd  frame  up  on  his  wife  to  get  a  di- 
vorce— the  rat  was  gunna  have  his  chauffeur-  swear  he  took 


212  God's  Man 

her  to  assignation-Houses;  fine  guy — what?  Well,  this  girl's 
fellow  was  wise  and  asked  for  a  hundred  grands  to  get  the 
letters  back,  but  this  gee  had  the  nerve  to  yell  'blackmail'  and 
had  him  pinched — " 

"Blackmail,"  said  Arnold,  "is  a  poor  man's  attempt  to 
make  a  rich  one  pay  for  being  a  blackguard.  "When  a  rich 
one  makes  a  poor  one  pay  it's  justice  or  the  law  taking  its 
course,  or  protecting  the  community  against  criminals." 

"Well,"  grinned  Pink,  "this  girl's  fellow  was  no  boob.  He 
knew  that  kind  of  gee  always  hollered  for  the  law;  so  while 
he  was  in  a  cell  downta  the  'Front  Office,'  he  got  word  to  his 
girl  to  go  to  the  gee's  wife — the  wife  could  git  a  divorce  and 
big  money  on  the  strength  of  those  letters,  and  would,  too, 
after  reading  how  her  husband  wanted  to  make  a  tramp  out 
of  her  to  the  whole  world.  And,  sure  thing,  soon's  the  wife 
see  one  of  the  letters  was  the  goods  she  said  she'd  give  the 
girl  what  her  fellow  told  her  to  ask  for.  And  then  she  sent 
for  her  lawyer  and  when  he  said  that  one-third  of  all  her  hus- 
band had  would  be  a  romp  home  to  git  with  those  letters,  she 
had  her  junk  sent  down  to  a  guy  who  lends  to  rich  people  and 
he  give  her  the  hundred  thousand  dollars  on  it — diamond 
tararas  and  stomach  thingmajigs  and  strings  of  pearls  as  long 
as  an  East  Side  clothes-line,  Nellie  says  they  were — Nellie 
Noonan's  the  girl — you  musta  seen  her  in  these  here  Broad- 
way shows  hiding  behind  a  spear.  Some  swell-looking  dame 
she  is,  too ;  but  it  jest  shows  swell  looks  ain't  nothing  without 
brains.  Until  she  met  this  fellow  of  hers  she  was  dubbing 
around  with  wine-agents  and  young  stock-brokers  and  all 
that  kind  that  thinks  they're  Simon  Legree  if  they  pay  the 
board-bill.  This  fellow  of  hers,  when  she  gets  stuck  on  him, 
says  to  her :  'Can  all  that  stuff ;  you're  on'y  gitting  a  common 
rep.  "Wait  till  one  comes  along  who  kin  throw  Wall  Street 
'round  his  head  jest  for  exercise;  play  him  to  marry  you/ 
Well,  she  done  it.  She  cut  out  the  all-night  life  and  lived  OH 
her  little  thirty  per,  and  what  her  feller  made — and  see  what 
happened.  ...  It  takes  a  man  every  time  even  in  a 


The  Gay  Life  213 

woman's  own  business.  ...  I  pulled  that  one  on  Edna 
Garry  when  we  were  doubled-up,  and  she  comes  back  at  me 
with  some  high-brow  stuff  about  great  women  writers — she 
was  educated,  that  Garry  dame — and  of  course  then  I  was 
over  my  head.  But  next  day  I  go  overta  the  Astor  Libr'y 
and  asks  for  some  books  about  great  women  writers  and 
blamed  if  most  every  one  of  them  ain't  wearing  men's  mon- 
akers — George  Eliot,  George  Sand,  .  .  .  bunch  more, 
and  when  I  read  about  'em  I  see  they  ain't  women  at  all, 
men's  brains  disguised  in  women's  figgers.  .  .  .  And 
didn't  I  wallop  that  Garry  dame  for  making  me  waste  my  time 
rooting  around  with  sucker  stuff." 

"Oh,  say,  Pink,"  protested  Arnold,  up  in  arms :  "a  sucker's 
one  who  plays  somebody  else's  game,  and  you're  being  the 
sucker  now.  Some  of  the  greatest  men  ever  lived  have  written 
books.  Don't  talk  like  that.  .  .  ." 

""Well,  I  wish  you'd  put  me  wise,  then,"  said  Pink  wistfully. 
"Every  time  I  pick  up  one  of  these  here  magazines  or  new 
books,  I  jest  naturally  seem  to  encounter  a  lot  of  junk.  Every- 
thing dead  wrong:  stuff  pulled  'ud  make  a  dog  sick.  One 
writer  I  was  steered  on  to  as  one  of  the  big  fellows  of  to-day — 
tells  about  a  gee  who  goes  nutty  on  five  pills  of  hop  and  it 
takes  twenty-five  for  any  feeling  at  all — that's  jest  an  example ; 
but  how  kin  I  believe  the  rest  of  the  story's  true  when  one 
thing's  wrong.  .  .  .  Same  whenever  I  read  about  grifters 
or  guns — always  this  'master  cracksman'  stuff,  kin  take  the 
Bank  of  England,  but  when  it  comes  to  blasting  an  ordinary 
box  I  could  kick  my  way  into  in  my  stocking  feet,  I  read  some- 
thing like  this:  'The  burglar  leaped  lightly  over  the  garden 
wall' — when  he  would  have  sprung  the  lock  of  the  gate  and 
took  no  chances ;  'ten  minutes  later,  he  was  kneeling  before  the 
open  safe  .  .  /  kneeling  before  the  open  safe^— ain't  that 
rich?  How'd  he  get  in  the  house ?— the  writer  guy  don't 
know.  How  was  he  jerry  to  where  the  pete  was— the  writer, 
ain't  there  with  a  single  idea.  How'd  the  pete  get  open-^-elec- 
tric  drill? — carbon  pencil?— was  th«  'burglar'— 'cracksman? 


214  God's  Man 

as  those  suckers  call  'em — a  tip-top  peter-man,  a  house-sneak, 
or  a  rough  yegg  working  with  soup  and  blanket — don't  ask 
that  'underworld'  writer.  Underworld ! — "  he  was  breathless 
with  scorn— "don't  talk  to  me  about  books —  .  .  .  And 
even  when  they're  writing  jest  ornery  mush,  they  step  all  over 
themselves — I  never  read  about  one  woman  in  the  magazines 
that  wasn't  jest  a  cut-out  paper-doll.  There  was  one  I  see 
on'y  a  few  days  ago.  She's  supposed  to  be  nuts  over  a  guy,  but 
when  she  finds  out  he  fell  for  forging  a  cheque  once,  she  turns 
him  down  cold,  sends  him  away  forever,  and  realizes  she  really 
loves  some  Willie-boy  who  never  fell  for  nothing  more  desprit 
than  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  Why,  that  dame  'ud  have  loved  the 
scratch-man  all  the  more  for  having  took  a  long  chance.  .  .  . 
Them  skirts  is  got  no  respeck  fer  law — even  the  highest  tip- 
toppers.  They  encourage  a  man  to  the  rough  stuff — don't 
tell  me!  .  .  ." 

"You're  talking  about  magazines — they're  different,"  ex- 
plained Arnold;  "they're  run  to  get  big  circulations  so  they 
can  charge  high  for  advertising,  and  they  have  to  print  stuff 
that  will  please  the  public — and  writers  must  live,  you  know, 
and  mighty  few  men  have  a  big  enough  reputation  to  write 
what  they  like  and  make  the  public  like  it,  too.  I'll  write 
down  a  list  of  the  few  like  that,  so  you  won't  pick  any  more 
'junk/  And  a  list  of  real  books ;  there  are  some.  But  it's  just 
like  everything  else  when  the  ignorant  and  uneducated  rule, 
just  like  a  woman  goes  on  the  streets  because  she  can't  get 
pretty  clothes  and  hats  and  good  things  to  eat  unless  she  does. 
.  .  .  If  those  White  Slavery  muckers  would  only  try  to 
remember  that  instead  of  listening  to  girls  who've  quarreled 
with  their  men  and  want  to  revenge  themselves  by  getting 
them  into  jail.  .  .  .  But  blaming  White  Slavers  relieves 
the  uneasy  consciences  of  the  rich." 

He  smiled  sourly:  he  had  profited  by  Pink's  confidences. 
The  hitherto  silent  Beau,  always  absorbed  when  Arnold  ex- 
plained anything,  added,  scowling: 

"And  what  d'you  suppose  they  think  when  those  Sunday 


The  Gay  Life  215 

yallers  tell  about  that  little  French  dame  or  some  other  woman 
who's  got  her  start  that  way :  there's  always  pages  about  them 
and  how  many  hock-rocks  they've  got  and  how  they  spend 
more  than  the  President  gits  jest  on  makin'  a  swell  front.  So 
the  working-girl,  if  she's  got  the  nut  of  a  field  mouse,  jest 
says  to  herself :  'Say — why  be  a  sap  ?  To  hell  with  hard  work 
and  hall  rooms — me  for  Broadway.' " 

Arnold  blazed  up  again.  "And  people  that've  good  homes 
and  never  did  a  real  day's  work,  speak  about  'em  as  if  they 
were  animals  in  a  zoo;  but  when  they  get  on  the  stage,  pay 
double  prices  to  see  them.  It's  the  same  with  writers,  Pink. 
A  man  who  knows  anything  about  the  world  can't  read  one 
novel  in  a  hundred  without  laughing  himself  to  death.  .  .  ." 

He  paused,  out  of  breath  and  a  trifle  vexed :  he  had  expected 
applause.  He  understood  their  attitude  better  when  Pink  ex- 
plained they  had  heard  much  the  same  tirade  from  Nellie 
Noonan's  "fellow,"  "one  of  those  writer  fellows,  a  cracker- 
jack,"  but  unable  to  exist  unless  catering  to  cheap  and  vulgar 
tastes. 

"Which  he  says  be  damned  if  he  will  and  trained  Nellie  to 
go  after  the  big  money  instead.  He  sure  had  to  wise  her  up 
some  to  get  that  old  gee  to  put  his  fist  to  those  frame-up  let- 
ters. Some  guy! — you  and  him  'ull  get  on  like  a  pair  of 
Siamese  twins.  .  .  ." 

"I'll  be  glad  to  know  him  and  wish  him  success,"  said  Ar- 
nold warmly. 

"He's  got  that  already,"  returned  Pink.  "Success?  Ain't 
he  got  that  hundred  thousand  ?  Why  can't  we  think  up  some 
sich  big  money  racket,  brother?"  he  asked  boldly,  a  hand  on 
Arnold's  arm,  winking  at  Beau  unperceived. 

"I  wonder,"  Arnold  returned  thoughtfully,  with  half-closed 
eyes.  With  a  hundred  thousand,  he  need  have  no  fear  of 
Spedden — might  marry  Velvet  Voice.  .  .  .  But,  immedi- 
ately hardening,  why  should  he  want  to  marry  any  such  mer- 
cenary woman? 

"Eh?"  asked  Pink;  "how  about  it,  pal?    Set  your  think- 


216  God's  Man 

box  going  and  dope  out  a  way  for  three  smart  young  fellows 
to  grab  a  chunk  of  perfectly  good  green  stuff — " 

"I'd.  even  be  willing  to  split  ten  thousand  for  a  starter — " 
Beau  winked  this  time,  and  laughed.  "But — straight  goods — 
Pink  and  me's  decided  notta  take  no  more  rough  chances  till 
something  big  breaks.  It  ain't  worth  going  to  the  house-gow 
for  petty-larceny  pickings ;  let  Mother  howl  her  head  off,  hey, 
Beau?" 

But  Beau's  eyes  were  still  on  Arnold.  "Think  you're  on  the 
trail  of  the  big  idea?"  he  asked  solicitously;  for  he  had  noted 
Arnold's  eyes  light  up  at  the  recent  suggestion.  Arnold  an- 
swered him  slowly,  thoughtfully,  as  one  still  considering. 

"What  it  is,  exactly,  would  be  hard  to  say.  But  I've  got  a  feel- 
ing the  big  money's  in  this  and  that  you  and  a  lot  more  are  in 
on  it.  ...  Strangely  enough,  I  keep  dreaming  about  the 
place  I  come  from — the  harbor  there.  Last  night  I  dreamed 
about  being  on  a  ship  just  outside  it.  And  that's  got  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  idea  you've  just  woke  up  again,  I  suppose, 
and  is  just  about  as  clear." 

"Not  smuggling  hop  ?"  asked  Pink,  acutely  recalling  a  pre- 
vious prophecy  of  the  vistas  this  inhibition  opened  up. 

Arnold  nodded,  an  eager  troubled  look  in  his  eyes ;  such  as  ani- 
mals have  at  earnest  efforts  of  recollection.  "But  that's  noth- 
ing, in  itself,  just  the  smuggling,"  he  said  quickly:  "I  seem 
sometimes  to  be  just  on  the  verge  of  grasping  just  what  I  do 
mean — just  before  I  go  to  sleep — or  when  I'm  half -awake.  And 
then  it  leaves  me.  But  it's  there — not  any  petty  personal  thing, 
either — something  big  ...  Oh,  well,"  he  added,  shrug- 
ging and  rising,  "it'll  come  some  day.  Shall  we  go  ? — " 

When  they  parted  outside,  Pink  reminded  him  of  his  en- 
gagement for  the  following  night — the  place  Fifty-eighth 
Street — one  of  those  mushroom  hotels  to  be  found  on  every 
side-street  off  Tenderloin  Broadway. 

"And  ask  for  Mr.  Jouncer's  party,"  said  Beau.  "Dan  Joun- 
cer's  Nellie's  fellow." 

Dan  Jouncer !— Arnold  repeated  the  name  as  he  boarded 


The  Gay  Life  217 

his  cross-town  car.  Jouncer ! — Daniel  Eadie  Jouncer ! — to  be 
sure — and  at  the  remembrance  Arnold's  stick  struck  the  car- 
floor  as  it  fell  from  a  numbed  hand.  That  defenseless  boy — 
that  harmless  sweet-tempered  little  school-fellow  whose  battles 
he  had  fought.  .  .  . 

Dan  Jouncer  was  "The  Jinx." 


END  OF  BO»K  III 


BOOK  IV 


CHAPTER    ONE 


IN  WHICH  ARNOLD  GETS  A  CHEQUE 
AND  COMES  HOME  AGAIN 

RNOLD  did  not  go  to  The  Jinz'i 
party.  The  thought  of  that  mild- 
mannered  youth  in  business  as  a 
blackmailer  was  one  blow  too 
many.  He  was  stricken  with  a 
sudden  fear;  he  saw  that  he  was 
teetering  on  the  edge  of  a  quag, 
into  which  he  would  soon  slip  and 
be  engulfed  by  the  mud  of  easy 
morals.  For  one  sudden  numb- 
ing moment,  his  thoughts  had 
been  stripped  of  sophistries;  no 
matter  what  the  cause,  these  en- 
tertaining companions  of  his  were  thieves;  the  atmosphere  in 
which  he  was  spending  most  of  his  spare  moments  was  one 
where  robbery,  swindling,  chicanery  of  all  sorts,  were  the 
topics  of  ordinary  conversation.  At  the  Chinese  restaurant, 
all  those  well-dressed  men  and  women  were  lawbreakers  of 
some  kind,  or  else  contemptible  parasites.  No  matter  that 
poverty  and  the  viciousness  of  the  upper  classes  were  respon- 
sible ;  that  was  a  good  enough  excuse  for  the  weak.  One  who 
was  strong  could  not  afford  to  urge  it — it  was  too  con- 
temptible. .  .  .  Strong?  He  had  been  very  strong 
when  he  lay  penniless  in  the  Hotel  Tippecanoe;  helpless  in 


222  God's  Man 

jail.  Had  not  the  arm  of  wealth  and  power  been  outstretched 
in  aid,  his  address  would  be  Sing-Sing  Prison.  .  .  . 

He  thrust  such  unwelcome  thoughts  from  him.  It  had 
been  his  own  fault ;  he  had  been  quixotic ;  what  right  had  one 
with  his  advantages  to  go  forth  friendless?  Part  of  the 
strength  of  the  strong  people  lay  in  friendships  and  affilia- 
tions inherited,  just  as  was  property  or  wealth.  To  discard 
them  was  as  if  a  medieval  knight  discarded  horse  and  armor. 
Now  he  was  on  horseback  again,  he  must  take  care  not  to  be 
dragged  down  by  foolish  sympathy  for  those  less  fortunate. 
He  could  best  aid  them  by  staying  where  he  was. 

To  his  horror,  he  realized  he  was  thinking  along  lines  of 
self-deception  similar  to  those  with  which  Waldemar,  Senior, 
and  Benjamin  Hartogensis  tricked  their  consciences;  one 
through  ignorance,  the  other  hypocritically.  What  was  his 
life  now  that  it  was  so  superior  to  Pink's,  Beau's  or  Sonia's? 
The  selling  of  a  forbidden  drug;  an  artful  circumvention  of 
the  law.  In  what  way  was  that  superior? 

He  shook  his  fists  in  rage  and  despair.  Was  there  no  way 
of  circumventing  this  closing  net  of  circumstance,  the  net  that 
had  already  meshed  Hugo  and  Archie — Hugo  the  cavalier  of  a 
chorus-girl;  Archie  the  slave  of  a  selfish  woman;  himself  a 
tool  of  dishonesty  and  greed. 

A  sort  of  helpless  desperation  crushed  him.  Had  it  been 
their  fault  they  were  expelled  from  college  and  herded  to  the 
city  ?  Once  there,  had  it  been  the  desire  of  any  one  to  fall  to 
low  estate  ?  What  perverse  wind  of  destiny  was  driving  their 
frail  barks  direct  for  the  jagged  reefs  of  disgrace  and  self- 
destruction  ? — for  to  Arnold,  as  to  all  very  young  men,  suicide 
seemed  the  necessary  concomitant  of  a  lost  reputation. 

Was  he  to  blame  because  they  called  him  untrustworthy  and 
unscrupulous  in  newspaper  offices  ?  What  could  he  have  done  ? 
Other  work,  honest  work — he  had  tried  that  once  ...  as 
a  result  the  Hotel  Tippecanoe  and  the  jail. 

For  two  nights  after  Pink  had  told  him  of  The  Jinx,  Ar- 
nold remained  alone  in  his  rooms.  By  midnight  of  the  sec- 


In  Which  Arnold  Gets  a  Cheque   223 

ond  he  had  come  to  the  consideration  of  various  methods  of 
suicide.  It  might  as  well  come  now  as  later.  What  use  to  go 
through  any  more  of  life  the  slave  of  baser  men,  misery  on 
all  sides  of  him  and  he  unable  to  lend  a  hand?  In  Arnold 
L'Hommedieu,  strive  as  he  might  to  drown  it,  the  blood  of 
centuries  of  parsons — the  spirit  of  the  fighting  monk  and  the 
militant  Huguenot — was  not  to  be  denied.  He  must  battle 
against  evil,  he  must  fight  for  the  helpless,  else  be  eternally 
miserable.  And,  being  miserable,  chafing  in  impotency,  there 
seemed  no  reason  for  existence. 

It  was  during  these  considerations  that  he  remembered  the 
rubber  tube.  Velvet  Voice ! — another  bitter  memory — this  girl 
who  must  have  gaudy  clothes  and  motor-cars.  Again  wild 
with  rage,  he  denied  that  there  was  a  possible  chance  he  might 
love  such  a  frail  worthless  thing.  Poor  Bertie  was  far  her 
superior.  .  .  .  Yet  it  was  not  until  he  had  received 
Bertie's  wire  in  the  midst  of  these  meditations  that  he  began 
to  have  sensible  thoughts.  The  Stirrup-Cup  company  would 
head  for  New  York  on  the  following  night,  so  the  wire  read. 
She  would  soon  be  here — in  this  very  room.  How  could  he 
caress  her  again,  answer  her  affectionately,  day  after  day  pre- 
tend to  care  ? 

There  is  no  simile  more  true  of  man  in  the  grip  of  adverse 
circumstances  than  that  of  the  fly  in  the  fast-spinning  web  of 
the  spider — no  matter  how  he  may  struggle  or  where  turn 
another  spinneret  throws  another  strand  in  his  way.  Bertie ! 
— he  had  not  considered  realistically  what  her  return  meant. 
It  drove  out  all  thoughts  of  suicide.  Thus  the  drowning  man 
forgets  weariness  at  the  sight  of  an  oncoming  shark.  He  fell 
asleep  over  this  new  problem,  and  awoke  with  it. 

When  he  arrived  gloomy  and  dispirited  at  the  office  that 
morning,  he  found  a  cheque  from  John  Waldemar  for  his 
share  in  the  syndicate's  winnings,  the  accompanying  letter  in- 
forming him  that  his  chief  and  others  of  a  Congressional  Com- 
mittee were  to  go  West  that  day  on  an  investigation  of  certain 
plans  for  the  preservation  and  propagation  of  the  few  remain- 


224  God's  Man 

ing  American  bison.  The  cheque  was  larger  by  a  fifth  than 
Arnold  had  anticipated;  and,  after  paying  hie  debts,  and 
counting  in  the  thousand  he  had  received  from  Enoch  Apri- 
cott,  he  had,  all  told,  a  matter  of  some  thirty-five  hundred 
dollars. 

And,  as  the  lightning  flash  of  The  Jinx's  degradation  had 
shown  all  things  hopeless,  there  came  now  a  second  flash  that 
showed  the  way  of  escape.  This  money  would  enable  him  to 
avoid  Bertie,  forget  Velvet  Voice,  leave  his  new-found  com- 
panions, rid  himself  of  his  uncongenial  occupation.  Back  in 
Havre  de  Grace,  where  were  honest  folk  and  simple  friend- 
ships, he  would  write  down  what  he  had  seen  and  learned; 
would  help  awaken  his  slumbering  countrymen  to  their  im- 
minent danger. 

"I'm  going  away  for  a  few  days — I'm — I'm  ill,"  he  told  the 
general  manager  of  the  Waldemar  warehouses.  "If  any  one 
comes  on  personal  business  postpone  it  until  "Waldemar  gets 
back.  He'll  only  be  gone  a  week  or  so — " 

"So  he  says,"  returned  the  other;  "where  are  you  going, 
Mr.  L'Hommedieu?" 

And  Arnold  replied,  keeping  the  joyousness  from  his  tones 
only  with  an  effort :  "To  Havre  de  Grace — home !" 

He  would  break  the  news  in  a  letter  to  Waldemar;  Harvey 
Quinn  could  dispose  of  the  Beeckman  Street  lease  and  join 
him  afterward.  He  knew  of  a  little  cottage  he  could  secure, 
high  on  a  bluff  overlooking  the  sand-dunes  and  Havre  de 
Grace  breakwater.  Here  he  could  watch  the  homing  ducks  and 
sea-gulls,  see  the  ships,  almost  the  Connecticut  shore.  When 
Quinn  came,  he  would  take  that  cottage,  knock  in  a  great 
bow-window  like  that  at  the  Beeckman  Place  houst  and  there 
he  would  write ! 

But  he  said  nothing  of  all  this  to  Quinn ;  indeed  could  not 
hurry  that  person  fast  enough  over  packing  his  bags,  lest 
something  happen  to  keep  him  a  prisoner  in  a  city  grown  sud- 
denly a  dungeon.  Quinn  endured  the  hurrying  philosoph- 
ically, nor  asked  questions;  although  something  of  moment 


In  Which  Arnold  Gets  a  Cheque   225 

was  brewing  he  knew :  his  quasi-master  had  never  before  had 
those  bright  shining  eyes  and  eager  lips. 

By  the  time  the  Long  Island  ferry-boat  left  Manhattan, 
Arnold's  excitement  had  brought  tears  to  his  eyes.  A  great 
thankfulness  was  in  his  heart;  that  of  the  convict  who  has 
won  his  release.  When  the  train  had  passed  through  Jamaica, 
the  last  stronghold  of  the  enemy,  and  fields  and  forests  slid 
by  the  car  windows,  he  strained  his  eyes  as  might  a  slum-child 
on  its  first  outing. 

At  Havre  de  Grace  station,  his  father — telegraphed  for — 
waited  in  the  ancient  family  phaeton,  old  Julius,  snowy  of 
wool,  at  the  reins  just  as  always  when  Arnold  came  home  for 
holidays  and  vacations.  Back  of  the  weather-beaten  railway 
offices,  fields  of  early  spring  flowers,  white  and  yellow  and 
pink,  stretched  away  to  meet  the  forests.  Honest  homely  faces 
looked  up  at  him  from  under  shabby  hats.  Even  the  hideous 
clap-boarded  eating-house  on  one  corner,  the  dingy  saloon  on 
the  other,  failed  to  destroy  his  illusion  that  here  all  things 
were  beautiful.  His  father's  face — how  serene  his  mild  blue 
eyes,  how  fresh  and  unwrinkled  his  skin,  despite  his  sixty 
years. 

And  then,  as  they  passed  old  Miss  Eastnicky's  Harbor  View, 
the  sunset  on  Havre  de  Grace  Harbor,  with  its  rainbow  arch 
of  flaming  salmon,  against  which  the  slim  straight  masts  of 
sailing  ships  and  a  single  gull  poised  above  the  light-house 
were  etched  in  the  delicate  tracery  of  a  thousand  growing 
shadows. 

"Wonderful — wonderful — wonderful,"  breathed  Arnold. 
"How  could  I  have  stayed  away  so  long,  father?"  The  old 
man,  to  whom  such  glories  were  part  of  his  daily  life,  only 
smiled  tolerantly.  "But  I'm  back  now,"  Arnold  added ;  "back 
to  stay.  If  I'd  had  any  doubts,  all  this  would  have  decided  it." 
He  waved  toward  the  lofty  green-thatched  hills  that  encom- 
passed the  Harbor,  little  white  houses  clinging  to  their  sides ; 
the  masts  and  spars  of  shipping  below.  "I  never  knew  how 
much  it  meant  to  me." 


226  God's  Man 

Afar  out  to  sea,  heading  for  the  narrow  channel,  came  the 
Connecticut  boat  carrying  the  night-mail,  the  smoke  from  its 
funnels  drifting  toward  the  early  glimmering  harbor  light. 
"Do  you  remember  how  I  used  to  watch  for  that,  father?" 
asked  Arnold  eagerly.  "Did  you  keep  my  old  brass  telescope  ? 
Remember  how  many  sermons  I  copied  out  for  you  to  get  that  ? 
— Eemember  how  I  used  to  lie  in  the  big  window  waiting  to  see 
the  boat  coming,  so  I  could  run  down  to  the  wharf  and  get 
your  evening  paper  before  anybody  else  got  there  ?" 

The  old  man  laid  his  hand  on  his  son's  shoulder,  then 
gripped  it  with  a  sudden  tremor  of  affection :  he  did  not  trust 
himself  to  speak. 

And,  as  they  went  on  jogging  behind  Julius'  charge — 
equally  ancient  with  himself  and  the  phaeton — old  dappled 
Joris,  to  whom  whip  or  spur  had  been  strangers  during  all  her 
twenty  years — men  raised  their  hats  to  the  Reverend  Jorian 
L'Hommedieu,  and,  gravely,  he  returned  their  salutes  in  kind. 

Just  as  they  were  about  to  turn  into  Parson's  Lane,  the  be- 
ginning of  the  L'Hommedieu  property,  a  sweatered  youth  of 
his  own  age,  his  hair  crisp,  curly  and  light,  hatless — few  of 
the  younger  men  wore  headgear  here  except  as  protection  from, 
the  cold — stepped  to  the  pony's  head  and  spoke  to  Arnold's 
father  concerning  his  motor-boat  on  which  it  appeared  he  had 
been  working — the  boat  that  carried  the  Reverend  Jorian  to 
his  distant  parishioners  at  Green  Sands,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Harbor.  This  was  one  of  the  mechanics  at  some  garage, 
Arnold  judged  from  his  speech;  which  was  to  the  effect  that 
his  afternoon's  work  had  not  remedied  the  engine's  failure 
to  do  its  duty. 

"And,  of  course,  I  can  come  to-morrow  morning  and  worrk 
on  it,"  the  youth  admitted  ruefully;  "but  I  hate  to  run  up 
any  more  time  on  you,  Parson,  without  doin'  any  good.  I 
suspect  there's  watter  in  her  tank ;  so  if  you  don't  have  to  use 
the  boatt  to-morrow,  I'll  come  'round  after  hours — Saturday's 
a  half-holiday — and  look  her  over  on  my  own  time.  .  .  . 
I'd  like  to,  sir.  You've  paid  for  enough  time  that  hasn't  done 


In  Which  Arnold  Gets  a  Cheque   227 

you  any  good.  Why,  hello,  Arnold,"  he  added,  his  eyes  better- 
trained  to  the  fading  light.  And  Arnold  shook  hands  with 
an  old  public-schoolmate,  the  mathematician  and  draftsman 
of  his  class. 

"And  where  would  you  find  that  in  New  York?"  asked  Ar- 
nold when  the  youth  had  gone  off  whistling. 

"New  York — ehem !  yes,"  his  father  replied,  in  his 
usual  abstracted  manner.  "He  has  no  right  to  give  me 
his  time  that  way — I  must  find  him  some  suitable  pres- 
ent. .  .  .  He  could  have  gone  there,"  he  went  on, 
without  the  slightest  idea  he  was  not  being  perfectly 
clear,  "and  the  people  who  make  the  motor-cars  Inker- 
mann's  agent  for  wanted  him  as  demonstrator  and  sales- 
man. Some  rich  man  stopping  at  the  Inn  wanted  him,  too — 
to  take  charge — he  had  four  cars  and  an  electric,  Tony  told 
me.  Lots  of  offers,  that  lad  has  had !  But  he  stays  with  Ink- 
ermann.  Seems  to  enjoy  pottering  around  machinery.  And 
though  always  complaining  about  the  lack  of  amusement,  of 
nights,  he  stays.  A  good  boy,  Tony — a  great  friend  of  Paul's." 

That  was  something  like  democracy,  when  a  mechanic  could 
be  a  "great  friend"  of  the  heir  to  the  L'Hommedieus — when 
he  could  do  the  Parson  a  favor,  and  call  his  eldest  son  "Ar- 
nold," all  without  an  idea  he  was  being  unusual.  Arnold 
smiled  grimly  at  the  realkation  that  some  of  the  snobbery  of 
Carol  Caton's  set  had  been  absorbed  by  him.  Why  shouldn't 
any  self-respecting,  educated,  self-supporting  man  be  Paul's 
friend  and  call  his  eldest  brother  "Arnold"  ?  Was  it  because 
he  wore  a  sweater  and  shapeless  trousers  and  Arnold  a  suit 
from  that  expensive  Avenue  tailor? 

He  was  beginning  to  understand  why  things  were  going 
awry  with  Americans  in  the  big  cities.  They  had  abjured 
the  duties  of  democracy  without  achieving  the  obligations  of 
aristocracy.  They  had  lost  admiration  for  the  man  who  re- 
spected himself  too  much  to  take  money  he  had  not  earned; 
and  were  giving  it  to  him  who  respected  himself  so  little  that 
he  was  proud  of  never  having  earned  it. 


228  God's  Man 

But  he  had  no  time  for  ethics  and  metaphysics  just  then : 
there  were  too  many  keen  sensations  to  be  felt — the  sight  of 
the  familiar  playgrounds  of  his  youth,  the  centuries-old  house 
with  the  moss-covered  slate  roof  that  sloped  over  the  long  low 
windows  of  the  first  floor,  and  from  which  the  dormers  of  the 
attic  story  peeped  out;  the  last  rays  of  the  sunset  finding  a 
thousand  sparkling  shooting-star  jewels  in  their  diamond- 
panes.  And,  on  the  long  fiat  slab  of  slate  that  had  been  worn 
glassy  smooth  by  the  feet  of  the  many  generations  of  L'Hom- 
medieus  who  had  used  it  for  a  doorstep,  Paul  L'Hommedieu, 
his  arm  linked  in  his  mother's,  stood  shading  his  eyes  and 
watching  for  them. 

"Oh,  my  loy!"  the  small,  spry  and  generally  cheerful  old 
lady  cried  as  she  put  her  arms  around  her  eldest  son.  It 
was  hard  to  imagine  that  she  and  her  husband  were  three- 
score. A  life  free  of  worries  (save  only  Arnold  in  these  later 
years)  and  complete  absorption  in  congenial  work,  had  left 
both  younger  than  many  who  lacked  a  score  of  their  years. 
Only  the  sobriety  of  Mrs.  I/Hommedieu's  black  satin  dress, 
the  stiffness  of  her  petticoat,  and  the  lace-cap  that  she  wore 
because  she  "thought  it  fitting  at  my  age,"  gave  any  hint  that 
she  was  past  the  middle  period  of  life — while  the  Eeverend 
Jorian  had  looked  the  same  for  so  many  years  that  he  had 
imagined  it  "due  his  years"  to  grow  beard  and  side-whiskers 
that  would  disguise  his  youthful  appearance.  .  .  .  Paul 
was  destined  to  be  another  like  him — his  face  cherubic,  his 
figure  chubby,  he  seemed  hardly  due  to  leave  grammar-school. 

"Where  have  you  kept  yourself?"  he  asked,  as  he  linked  his 
arm  with  his  brother's — an  affectionate  habit — and  took  him 
off  to  his  old  room.  It  had  been  kept  as  though  he  still  had 
residence  there :  his  boyhood  books — Ballantynes,  Castlemons, 
Kingstons,  Oliver  Optics,  Hans  Andersen,  Arabian  Nights, 
Tom  Brown — merry  men  all,  a  crew  of  genial  ghosts,  that  sud- 
denly people  the  room,  crowding  upon  him  with  jovial  grins 
and  reminding  him  how  ungrateful  he  had  been  to  think  the 
( wo  rid  a  poor  place  when  they  had  had  so  many  happy  times 


In  Which  Arnold  Gets  a  Cheque   229 

together  on  those  long  winter  nights  before  the  fire,  through 
those  long  summer  days  in  the  sweet-smelling  hay-loft.  Ar- 
nold hardly  heard  what  his  brother  was  saying. 

".  .  .  Why,  it's  been  your  first  trip  in  two  years 
.  .  .  You  don't  know  how  father  and  mother  were  cut  up 
about  it.  Caught  her  crying,  lots  of  times — and  you  know 
she's  not  one  for  that.  And  father  sits  and  stares,  doesn't  an- 
swer you — which  isn't  like  him.  .  .  " 

"Oh,  I  know  it — I've  been  a  filthy  brute."  Arnold  closed  his 
eyes  and  spoke  wearily.  If  they  ever  knew  he  had  been  within 
a  mile  of  the  place  and  had  not  even  stopped !  "What  a 
brute,"  he  added  fiercely. 

His  bat,  his  telescope,  his  fishing-rods,  his  birch-bark  canoe 
swung  up  among  the  rafters,  even  his  battered  old  school- 
books — all  were  exactly  as  he  had  left  them :  the  pictures  he  had 
cut  from  magazines  were  still  tacked  to  the  whitewashed  walls ; 
and,  hanging  over  one,  the  sling-shot  fork  he  had  cut  from 
the  elm  whose  branches  still  encroached  upon  the  windows. 
And  there  was  his  twenty-two  caliber  rifle  and  his  ducking- 
gun,  the  especial  pride  and  joy  of  his  grammar-school  days. 

"But  I'm  back,  Paul,"  he  said  finally,  choking  down  an  un- 
manly something  in  his  throat.  "Back  to  stay.  Not  to  rob 
you,  kid ;  no,  no !  To  write!  To  write  what  I  learned  while  I 
was  a  selfish  brute.  ...  It  all  came  over  me  like  a  shot 
this  morning — and  here  I  am — to  stay." 

He  seized  Paul  in  a  bear-hug  that  even  that  youth's  chub- 
biness  found  inimical  to  the  safety  of  his  bones:  then  dealt 
him  a  heavy  buffet  in  the  small  of  the  back,  and  toppled  him 
on  the  patchwork  quilt  of  the  bed,  where  he  was  affec- 
tionately pummeled.  Finally  he  was  forced  to  defend  him- 
self, and  a  lively  scuffle  ensued  during  which  chairs  were 
upset,  water  from  the  washstand  basin  was  spilled,  and  a 
table  of  books  was  overturned  endangering  the  plaster  of  the 
sitting-room  below.  From  which  escapade  Arnold  emerged 
minus  the  years  that  had  separated  him  from  his  younger 
brother,  and  they  answered  the  dinner-bell  by  racing  each 


230  God's  Man 

other  down  the  broad  winding  stairs,  half-sliding,  half-scam- 
pering: then  regardless  of  the  maternal  lace  cap,  black  silk 
and  stiff  petticoat,  which  should  have  awed  him  by  their  dig- 
nity, Arnold  lifted  the  little  woman  high  in  air  and  while  he 
held  her,  kissed  her. 

"Oh,  Arnold,  you  bad  "boy,"  she  protested,  quite  as  of  old; 
and  Belinda,  wife  of  Julius,  looked  on  grinning,  and  the 
Eeverend  Jorian's  laugh  was  almost  boisterous. 

"He  hasn't  changed,  Mother,"  said  Paul,  with  a  ridiculous 
attempt  to  put  into  his  young  voice  the  toleration  of  age  for 
youth. 

"No,  he  hasn't"  said  she  with  pretended  severity;  "the 
harum-scarum  thing  he  is.  Sit  down  and  eat  your  tea-cakes, 
sir,  or  they'll  be  cold.  .  .  ." 

She,  herself,  could  take  nothing,  so  full  was  her  heart,  so 
full  would  her  eyes  have  been  had  she  at  any  moment  allowed 
her  vigilance  to  relax.  Nor  could  the  elder  L'Hommedieu 
find  his  appetite.  Instead,  both  aided  and  abetted  their  eldest 
son  in  stuffing  himself  with  those  delicacies  of  which,  in 
younger  days,  he  had  protested  never  had  he  had  enough.  Be- 
sides the  hot  tea-cakes,  there  were  those  toothsome  crullers  and 
jam  doughnuts  that  weighed  a  little  less  than  nothing  at  all, 
and  that  nobody  but  Belinda  could  make;  various  spiced  pre- 
serves— peaches,  damsons,  yellow  tomatoes;  grape  and  crab- 
apple  jams ;  crisp  brook-trout  caught  only  that  afternoon  and 
browned  with  bacon ;  enormous  thin  slices  of  sugar-cured  ham 
— the  curing  a  secret  of  Julius'  smoke-house  down  by  the 
brook;  large  strawberries  grown  under  glass  by  the  Reverend 
Jorian  himself  and  served  with  cream  but  an  hour  divorced 
from  Belinda's  namesake,  the  spotted  Alderney  that  was  to  be 
heard  giving  vent  to  various  rumbling  "moos"  outside  as  she, 
with  the  others,  noisily  advertised  their  dining  in  the  near-by 
barn. 

Arnold,  accustomed  to  the  spare  measured  "portions"  of 
restaurants,  swore  he  had  no  room  for  any  of  the  huge  joint 
of  browned  beef  that  Belinda,  of  the  continual  grin,  entrusted 


In  Which  Arnold  Gets  a  Cheque   231 

to  Julius  to  carve.  But  when  he  saw  the  rare  red  of  slices  that 
curled  off  under  the  knife  and  splashed  into  their  own  rich 
juice,  he  found  room  for  several;  was  again  recalcitrant  and 
again  recalled  his  refusal  when  his  mother's  silver  knife  slid 
through  the  crust  of  a  pumpkin  pie  as  though  cutting  butter. 
So,  that,  finally,  the  mental  helplessness  of  the  overfed  seized 
him,  and  he  slid  down  in  his  chair  and  leaned  back  to  hear 
the  others  talk  of  homelike  things  as  of  old,  to  listen  to  the 
crackling  of  a  fire  that  leaped  high  in  its  home  of  bright  blue 
tiles  lighting  up  the  history  of  Holland  pictured  thereon, 
pricking  up  his  ears  to  the  weird  crooning  of  the  night-wind 
that  swept  up  from  the  Harbor  to  rock  the  treetops  that  waved 
over  the  house  of  the  L'Hommedieus.  And  when  the  moon 
rose,  church  spire  and  gilded  cross  were  flooded  with  light  as 
though  their  good  friend  of  centuries,  the  Moon,  knew,  and 
wished  to  be  remembered  to  the  little  boy  who  had  once 
waited  and  watched  each  night  for  his  coming;  but  whom  it 
had  been  unable  to  find  over  there  in  the  city  among  so  many 
people  who  did  not  care  whether  it  shone  or  not,  so  seldom 
did  they  lift  up  their  eyes  from  the  mud  in  which  they  lived. 


CHAPTER    TWO 

NO-MAN'S  LAND 

ARNOLD  MEETS  A  PHILOSOPHER 

ATE  on  the  following  evening,  Ar- 
nold leaned  on  his  oars  while  the 
gray  crept  up  out  of  the  rolling 
waters,  and  spread  over  earth 
and  sky.  It  had  been  foggy  all 

y;    DOW   the    f°S-banks    were 
hiding   town    and    harbor;    but 

Arnold  was  oblivious  to  the  signs 
.that,  in  other  times,  would  have 
told  him  old  Mother  Gary  was 
brewing  broth  for  her  chickens 
out  there  on  her  mysterious 
island  in  the  gray  sea.  He  was 
sunk  in  a  sort  of  rapt  retrospec- 
tion. He  was  seeing  what  wise  men  have  seen  from  the  be- 
ginning of  time :  that  the  evil  of  man  is  but  a  small  ill-smelling 
tallow-dip  beside  the  glory  of  his  inheritance.  He  came  out 
of  his  meditations  with  a  start.  Not  seeing  the  boat  in  the 
mantle  of  fog,  there  had  swept  across  his  bows,  almost  brush- 
ing his  face  with  their  wings,  a  brace  of  green-necked,  red- 
footed  ducks,  in  hasty  retreat  for  the  shore  to  join  the  nesting 
army  in  the  caves  of  the  cliffs.  As  he  looked  after  them  in 
their  low-lying  flight  close  to  the  rising  wave-tops,  he  heard, 
squawking  their  plaintive  "peet-peet,"  a  pair  of  sea-gulls  cir- 
cling high  above  him. 


No-Man's  Land  233 

Eecalled  to  a  realization  of  the  gathering  storm  by  these 
weather-wise  dwellers  in  the  air-currents,  Arnold  began  to 
row  in  the  direction  of  the  narrow  bottle-neck  of  Havre  de 
Grace  Harbor ;  but  a  heavy  wind  had  arisen  and  was  capping 
the  waves  with  white.  Moreover,  the  fog  had  now  grown  thick 
as  a  Scotchman's  porridge  and  he  caught  only  a  glimpse  of 
the  blue-black  lines  of  breakwater  that  indicated  the  channel 
and  against  which  the  heavy  seas  were  now  dashing  them- 
selves into  thousands  of  bits  of  seething  white  spray;  while 
heavy  draperies  of  sea-mist  slowly  descended  and  wrapped 
them  with  the  color  of  sky  and  water.  It  was  now  as  though 
he  and  his  boat  had  been  lifted  from  sea  to  sky  and  were  float- 
ing on  heavy  banks  of  cloud.  An  immensity  of  grayness 
stretched  about  him  on  all  sides  hiding  all  things.  The  heavy 
mist  muffled  the  waves  so  that  the  long  oily  swells  carried  him 
high  into  the  air  without  warning,  twisting  the  boat  out  of 
its  course,  no  matter  how  furiously  he  might  paddle.  He  lost 
all  sense  of  direction;  and  when  the  long  searching  rays  of 
the  channel  light  were  blunted  by  the  surrounding  grayness 
into  a  blurred  incandescence  like  a  light  behind  a  thick  and 
misty  window-pane,  he  saw  that  his  instinct  had  played  him 
false  and  that  he  had  been  rowing  toward  Green  Sands,  the 
stronger  light  from  which  now  shot  through  the  fog-banks 
like  a  flaming  zigzag  of  heat  lightning.  But  only  for  a  mo- 
ment: then,  Havre  de  Grace  light  seemed  to  have  been  ex- 
tinguished and  that  of  Green  Sands  reduced  to  pale  green 
mistiness.  Meanwhile,  the  waves  rose  high — sea-horses  shak- 
ing white  manes  threateningly — or  came  at  him  in  great  green 
rollers  sweeping  up  and  over  his  light  craft,  or  waltzing  with 
it  as  might  a  giant  with  a  feather,  its  direction  wholly  at  the 
will  of  the  rapid  sweeping  current.  Useless  to  attempt  to  turn 
her  now  and  row  against  such  obstacles — with  all  his  strength 
it  was  doubtful  if  he  could  keep  even  the  position  he  held. 

He  shipped  his  oars.  Fortunately  the  tide  was  going  high, 
the  current  was  bearing  him  shoreward — not  to  Havre  de 
Grace  Harbor,  truly,  nor  to  Green  Sands,  either,  but  to  that 


234  God's  Man 

long  peninmila  that  stretched  between  them,  a  No-Man's  Land 
of  dunes  and  hummocks — sand  'links'  of  Scotland — unten- 
anted,  unclaimed  by  any,  a  treacherous  coast  of  shoals  and 
rocks,  currents  and  low  tides;  a  coast  that  fishers,  oystermen 
and  pilots  gave  the  widest  possible  berth.  Cut  off  from,  the 
mainland,  at  high  tide,  by  water  rushing  through  a  wide  gully 
of  waving  rushes,  it  was  a  favorite  playground  for  Arnold  and 
other  young  adventurers  in  youth,  for  there,  half-covered  by 
the  drifting  sand  of  more  than  a  hundred  years,  was  a  spa- 
cious single-roomed  hut  built  of  sturdy  ships  timbers — oak 
and  spruce,  a  tradition  among  the  boys  of  Havre  de  Grace 
being  that  it  had  been  built  by  treasure-burying  pirates,  per- 
haps even  the  summering  place  of  the  infamous  Kidd.  .  .  . 
He  thought  of  this  hut  now :  it  would  keep  him  dry  until 
the  storm  blew  over,  and  there  was  always  enough  driftwood 
on  the  shore  to  build  a  fire.  So,  when  the  current  rapidly  bore 
him  in  that  direction,  he  gave  it  no  resistance — although  he 
blamed  himself  for  not  waiting  until  Tony  should  have  re- 
paired his  father's  boat,  the  motor  of  which  could  bid  cur- 
rents defiance.  Then  suddenly  one  great  roller  carried  the 
boat  high  and  dashed  it  down  again  to  crunch  its  keel  and 
grind  its  bottom  against  stones  and  sand.  Arnold  leaped  out, 
painter  in  hand,  into  a  foot  or  so  of  seething  white  scum  and 
dragged  the  boat  beyond  the  reach  of  the  next  discharge  of 
heavy  sea  artillery.  Artillery,  indeed,  for  the  breakers  now 
pounded  the  beach  with  the  sound  and  fury  of  a  park  of  great 
guns,  and  the  howling  wind  came  through  the  sea-mist  like  a 
charge  of  shrapnel  and  grapeshot,  whipping  up  particles  of 
spray  that  stung  Arnold's  eyes  until  they  blinked,  smarted 
and  wept;  that  raised  red  marks  on  his  cheeks.  It  required 
some  fortitude  to  persist  in  dragging  the  boat  beyond  high- 
water  mark,  after  which  he  stumbled  through  the  fog  in  what 
he  took  to  be  the  direction  of  the  old  hut — a  difficult  progress 
with  guch  a  retarding  foothold  as  wet  sand,  his  feet  slipping 
occasionally  as  the  undermined  ground  above  the  burrows  of 
rabbits  and  moles  gave  way  beneath  his  weight.  Once  he 


No-Man's  Land  235 

caught  his  foot  in  a  snake-hole,  stumbling  and  falling  face 
downward;  another  time  he  kicked  his  way  through  a  flock  of 
frightened  white  gulls,  hundreds  and  hundreds  huddled  in 
the  shadow  of  scrub  pines  and  gorse-bushes,  not  seeing  them 
until  they  rose,  their  cold  wet  wings  beating  against  his  face, 
the  mother-birds  fiercely  fighting  for  their  young.  This 
turned  him  from  his  path,  so  that  he  passed  in  a  circle  around 
the  hut  and  found  himself  slipping  on  the  gravelly  shore  again. 
Starting  back  patiently,  he  stumbled  into  a  sand-pit  and  fell 
upon  something  that  scurried  away — a  rabbit  probably;  and 
had  he  not  turned  to  attempt  to  follow  it  through  the  fog 
with  his  eyes,  he  would  have  gone  off  at  a  tangent  from  the 
hut  that  was  so  near  all  the  while.  But,  as  he  looked  after  the 
rabbit,  he  saw  another  misty  patch  of  light,  yellow,  this  one, 
and  near — some  fisherman,  no  doubt,  driven  ashore  like  him- 
self, had  sought  shelter  in  the  hut.  So  he  pushed  on  toward 
the  light  and  came,  to  his  surprise,  to  panes  of  glass  behind 
which  it  shone,  but  he  was  too  wet  and  cold  to  wonder  long 
how  the  glass  came  there,  only  tapped  on  it  with  his  seal-ring, 
hallooing  loudly  the  while.  Immediately  the  door  was  opened 
and  so  suddenly  that  Arnold  fell  on  all  fours,  in  the  glare  of 
a  roaring  fire  of  driftwood.  Eising,  he  began  to  warm  him- 
self :  that  was  more  important  than  troubling  to  examine  his 
host,  although  he  mumbled  some  conventional  thanks,  and 
apologized  before  slipping  off  his  high-laced  ducking-boots 
to  dry  his  stockinged  feet. 

The  man  of  the  hut  drew  up  another  chair  and  sat  down 
beside  him — a  handsome  man  with  features  vaguely  familiar, 
tanned  and  weather-beaten,  his  eyes  not  remarkable  for  size  or 
color,  but  deeply  set  and  holding  some  strange  hidden  quality 
that,  unconsciously,  demanded  respectful  attention.  His  dress 
was  simple :  a  closely  fitting  jersey-jacket,  knickerbockers  but- 
toned over  heavy  stockings,  all  of  soft  gray  wool,  while  he  had 
evidently  just  discarded  the  wet  hip-boots  that  stood  near  the 
fire  for  a  pair  of  worn  dress-pumps. 

He  had  been  giving  Arnold  careful  scrutiny  while  both  sat 


236  God's  Man 

silent,  scrutiny  few  could  have  accomplished  without  the  ef- 
fect of  offensive  suspicion,  or  vulgar  curiosity. 

When  he  spoke  his  voice  held  some  quality  as  vaguely  dis- 
quieting as  that  in  his  eyes.  "Very  remarkable  head,  young 
man.  Wonder  if  you  have  ever  done  anything  with  it  ?"  And, 
again,  despite  the  apparent  rudeness,  Arnold  felt  he  had  noth- 
ing to  resent,  so  only  smiled  and  replied  that  he  doubted  he 
had,  but  intended  he  should.  Then  he  surveyed  the  hut.  A 
list  to  starboard,  effect  of  a  century's  wind  and  piling  sand, 
had  been  corrected:  the  walls  were  now  entirely  hidden  by 
shelves  of  well-bound  books.  On  the  upper  shelves  framed 
prints  stood  slanted  against  the  oak  rafters.  Some  of  these 
Arnold  recognized  for  photographic  portraits  of  famous  icon- 
oclasts, Shaw,  "Wells,  Nietzsche,  Ibsen,  Bjornson — and  lesser 
lights,  Synge,  Symonds  and  Strindberg — all  Arnold's  own 
particular  Deities.  He  said  as  much. 

"You're  that  rare  animal — a  man  who  can  think,  then," 
was  his  host's  comment.  "For  which  I  am  duly  thankful.  Ex- 
pected an  evening  of  boredom.  Happened  before.  Current 
circles  this  peninsula,  and  drives  people  ashore  stormy  days. 
Had  a  dozen  guests  since  I  came  here :  one  for  a  week.  That 
was  during  the  blizzard  two  years  ago.  He  drove  me  mad. 
Told  me  about  every  blizzard  he'd  ever  heard  of,  or  his  grand- 
father, or  his  great  grandfather,  or  his  friends,  or  that  he'd 
read  about  or  dreamed  about.  Spent  the  rest  of  the  time 
wondering  what  the  boys  were  doing  in  Havre  de  Grace  House 
bar-room.  Jim  was  playing  pool  with  Bill  and  giving  him 
twenty  balls,  and  Pete  was  taking  his  fourth  drink,  and  Jack 
was  talking  politics,  and,  at  home,  his  wife  was  just  about 
putting  the  boy  to  sleep — in  all  the  time  he  was  here  he  never 
uttered  a  sentence  that  showed  even  the  intelligence  of  a 
marsh-rabbit.  ...  If  he'd  stayed  here  a  day  longer  I'd 
have  picked  a  quarrel  with  him  just  to  escape  any  more  of  his 
imbecile  good  nature — " 

The  kettle  hissed  on  the  hob,  interrupting  him :  he  removed 
it  and  infused  tea  leaves,  then  brushed  off,  with  a  long  han- 


No-Man's  Land  237 

died  fork,  the  ashes  that  covered  some  potatoes  buried  in  the 
glowing  embers  of  the  hearth.  Satisfied  with  their  appear- 
ance, he  cleansed  the  fork,  sliced  several  pieces  of  bacon  from 
a  flitch  that  hung  from  a  rafter,  and  began  broiling  them, 
and  as  he  did  so  he  answered  Arnold's  questions. 

It  appeared  that  the  State  had  owned  the  peninsula  and 
that  he  had  bought  it  for  next  to  nothing.  He  had  discovered 
it  years  before  while  cruising  the  coast  and  had  thought  it 
then  the  ideal  spot  for  a  hermitage.  Not  that  an  occasional 
intelligent  guest  was  not  welcome,  but  he  was  not  likely  to 
meet  many  strangers  whose  conversation  might  be  worth  the 
trouble  of  entertaining  them.  As  he  talked  the  familiarity 
of  his  features  grew  upon  Arnold  until  he  could  no  longer 
restrain  his  curiosity. 

"I've  seen  you  somewhere,  surely,"  he  said  at  length,  busy- 
ing himself  at  his  host's  request,  removing  the  roasted  pota- 
toes from  their  fiery  bed.  He  was  not  answered;  the  man 
professed  not  to  have  heard  him,  even  when  he  repeated  his 
quasi-question  as  they  sat  down  to  dinner  together.  His 
cheeks  burning,  Arnold  hastened  to  turn  the  talk  to  those 
writers  whose  works  lined  the  walls.  But  his  own  ambition 
to  emulate  them  which  presently  came  out,  was  met  by  a 
shake  of  the  head. 

"A  pity,"  said  his  host  briefly.  "Too  many  writers,  tee 
few  thinkers.  Those  early  writers,  who  worked  for  love  and 
the  spreading  of  knowledge,  if  they  could  see  the  trash  that 
pours  from  printing-houses  to-day,  they'd  be  sorry  they  hadn't 
left  making  books  to  monks.  When  each  letter  was  made  by 
hand  few  worthless  books  got  made.  And  books  were  beyond 
any  who  didn't  desire  learning  mighty  earnestly.  Of  course, 
the  mob  had  its  tale-tellers  and  minstrels,  but  their  stuff 
couldn't  reach  any  farther  than  the  sound  of  their  voices. 
But  now  every  fool  can  get  his  foolishness  printed  and  mil- 
lions of  people  can  read  it  and  confirm  their  conceit  of  them- 
selves. So  don't  write — unless  you  must." 

"I  must,  then,"  said  Arnold  seriously. 


238  pod's  Man 

"Then,"  returned  his  new  acquaintance,  "you  should  love 
the  truth  heyond  women  or  wealth  or  fame.  You  should  be 
content  to  have  fools  laugh  and  jeer  at  you,  and  rich  illiterates 
and  unscrupulous  rascals  spit  in  your  face  and  call  you  'mad/ 
'insane/  'an  anarchist/  Don't  expect  respect,  or  love,  or 
friendship.  You  will  be  a  very  lonely  man — such  as  I  am." 

His  voice  was  careless  and  matter-of-fact  and  betrayed  no 
feeling;  his  loneliness  did  not  seem  to  weigh  on  him.  "That 
is,"  he  continued,  "if  you  would  find  the  truth  and  write  the 
truth.  Solitude  is  necessary  for  that.  One  must  be  alone 
much  of  the  time  to  puzzle  out  the  mysteries  of  love  and  life 
and  death.  There  should  be  no  room  in  your  heart  for  the 
love  of  a  woman,  or  the  desire  for  riches,  or  the  hope  of  fame. 
The  truth  will  swallow  them  all  up.  ...  And  it's  too 
soon  for  you  to  think  of  giving  up  all  those  things  which  seem 
precious  as  life  itself  to  youth.  One  must  first  have  lived 
them  all,  which  you  are  too  young  to  have  done.  Go  out  and 
live.  Then  come  back  and  write.  You  can't  live  and  write 
at  the  same  time." 

For  the  moment  his  eyes  were  lit  by  something  that  gave 
Arnold  vague  alarm ;  which,  perceived  in  some  uncanny  fash- 
ion, for  Arnold  was  sure  he  had  not  shown  his  feelings,  the 
man  made  his  eyes  somber  again  and  his  laugh  a  harsh  jarring 
one.  "What  nonsense  I'm  talking — nonsense  to  you.  Now, 
you  want  the  women  to  say,  'How  clever/  And  the  tame 
critics  to  say,  'What  masterly  technique/  and  the  publishers 
to  put  out  your  book  in  a  gaudy  wrapper  like  that  on  a  box  of 
candy — the  monk's  frock  and  the  warrior's  armor  traded  for 
the  gaudy  dress  of  the  public  panderer.  And  a  hack  will 
dramatize  it  and  a  'perfectly  sweet'  actress  will  play  in  it  for 
'two  hundred  nights  in  New  York/  .  .  ." 

He  pushed  back  his  chair  and  strode  across  the  hut  to  stare 
out  at  the  driving  spray  and  sleet,  in  the  wildness  of  which 
he  seemed  to  find  kinship.  There  was  silence,  Arnold  sur- 
veying the  bare  room  with  its  hard  pallet-bed,  its  rough 
chairs  and  table,  its  absence  of  luxuries.  Was  this  bearded 


No-Man's  Land  239 

stranger  with  the  odd  disquieting  eyes  some  famous  icono- 
clast, such  as  those  whose  works  crowded  the  walls?  That 
would  account  for  the  vague  familiarity  of  his  face. 

He  filled  a  long  clay  pipe  and  offered  Arnold  another.  He 
had  become  calm,  self -detached.  "You  don't  helieve  me? 
You  do  understand  life?  You  know  the  whys  and  where- 
fores ?  You  have  a  philosophy  that  will  explain  the  .world's 
apparent  paradoxes  and  inconsistencies?"  Arnold  stared  at 
him,  suddenly  alarmed.  "I  see  that  you  don't — and  haven't," 
continued  his  mentor;  "the  lines  coming  in  your  forehead 
show  bewilderment,  and  around  your  eyes  fear,  about  your 
mouth  bitterness.  You  have  seen  things  out  there" — he 
waved  his  hand  in  the  direction  of  the  cities — "and  you  are 
anxious  to  put  them  down  that  other  people  may  be  horrified, 
too.  Don't !  Life  holds  enough  misery  without  books  being 
written  about  it,  ...  unless  the  things  you  saw  have 
taught  you  how  misery  may  be  mitigated.  Which  they  have 
not  by  the  troubled  look  that  just  came  into  your  eyes.  .  .  . 
Therefore,  go  out  and  learn  more.  You  haven't  seen  enough. 
It  took  forty  years  to  teach  me.  What  do  you  know  ?  Only 
that  life  is  not  what  copy-books  and  Sunday-schools  taught 
you.  That,  when  men  and  women  get  to  a  great  city  where 
they  are  free  of  watching  neighbors  they  often  lose  even  the 
semblance  of  virtue.  .  .  .  But  how  does  that  help  any- 
body ?  The  cities  must  be  peopled.  Where  is  the  error,  then  ? 
Who  is  to  blame  ?  You  don't  know." 

He  drew  on  his  pipe ;  he  was  quite  placid  now.  "You  will 
know,  though,"  he  said  presently ;  "men  with  heads  like  yours 
are  put  into  the  world  to  know — and  to  teach.  But  the  head 
must  gain  many  hard  bumps  first.  Then  .  .  ."  He 
paused  and  crossed  to  the  window.  "It  is  clearing,"  he  said ; 
"you  will  be  able  to  go  soon."  Once  more  he  was  without 
offense  even  as  the  author  of  so  inhospitable  a  speech. 

"Won't  you  tell  me  your  name,  sir?"  asked  Arnold,  hi& 
voice  respectful. 

"Any  name  will  do,"  the  man  responded.    "They  call  me 


240  God's  Man 

Tobinson  around  here.  It  is  as  good  as  any  other  to  figure 
on  tax-reports,  and  that's  the  only  use  I  have  for  a  name. 
We  should  all  have  numbers,  not  names.  Then  all  this  striv- 
ing to  impress  the  public  with  the  superiority  of  a  certain 
arrangement  of  letters  would  cease  and  much  destructive 
waste  of  energy  would  be  eliminated.  .  .  .  Yes,  the  stars 
are  coming  out.  You  won't  have  any  difficulty  in  getting 
home  now." 

Arnold  followed  his  pointing  finger  and  saw  clear  and 
bright  a  dark  blue  belt  of  sky  set  with  many  pointed  jewels  of 
light,  while  the  darkness  in  one  place  seemed  thrust  forth  on 
either  side  and  a  misty  patch,  larger  and  brighter  than  any 
dozen  light-house  lamps,  was  shining  through — the  moon.  He 
began  drawing  on  his  boots,  his  mind  in  a  turmoil  of  dissat- 
isfaction, curiosity,  wounded  pride.  But  for  the  moment  this 
was  dissipated  by  the  man  speaking  again. 

"Whenever  you  can't  decide  for  yourself  and  want  me  to 
decide  for  you,  come  again,"  he  said.  Arnold  hesitated. 
Should  he  confide  in  his  inhospitable  host  the  fact  that  he  did 
not  intend  to  take  his  advice? — that  he  would  remain  and 
write,  regardless  of  the  other's  dictum?  This  fellow  under- 
rated him  because  of  his  youth.  He  did  not  know,  youth  or 
no,  that  Arnold's  experiences  were  those  most  elderly  men 
never  had.  As  for  women — had  he  not  given  up  both  Bertie 
and  Velvet  Voice?  He  crowded  out  and  crushed  down  the 
sudden  yearning  for  Velvet  Voice  that  always  came  with  the 
thought  of  her.  Was  she  dining  somewhere  at  this  very  mo- 
ment with  the  unspeakable  Spedden? 

"With  all  due  respect  to  you,"  said  Arnold,  "I  think  I 
know  best  about  my  particular  situation.  If  I'd  stayed  any 
longer  in  New  York  I'd  have  ended  up  like  most  of  them  my 
age  do.  That  is,  if  they  aren't  born  to  the  purple.  I'd  gone 
far  enough  as  it  was :  taken  money  I  would  have  spit  on  when 
I  first  struck  town.  And  the  only  excuse  for  taking  it  is  to  try 
to  make  myself  a  better  man  with  it.  Put  it  that  way :  even 


No-Man's  Land  241 

if  my  writing  won't  be  valuable  to  anybody  else,  it  will  be  to 
me/' 

The  man  who  was  called  Tobinson  shook  his  head.  "You're 
dodging  the  issue.  You're  running  away  from  the  fight. 
You'll  never  forgive  yourself  if  you  give  up  before  you've 
learned  the  answer  to  the  Big  Problem — Why? — And  you 
won't  learn  that  down  here." 

"Then  I  don't  want  to  know  it,"  retorted  Arnold,  his  anger 
stirred.  "Why?— You  may  well  say  it.  Why  do  the  hypo- 
crites and  the  ignorant  and  the  rascals  hold  most  of  the 
power?  Why  is  everything  good  in  life,  in  business,  in  poli- 
tics, in  literature,  in  art,  subordinated  to  the  desire  of  a  few 
thousands  to  get  more  money?  Why  are  the  fools  raised  up 
and  the  wise  men  kicked  down  ? — the  selfish  rewarded  and  the 
unselfish  beaten?  .  .  ." 

"That  is  just  it — why  ¥'  interrupted  the  other  coolly :  "You 
don't  know.  That's  why  I  advise  you  to  go  back  and  find  out, 
not  moon  away  your  brains  down  here  worrying  over  it — " 

"You  are  here,  aren't  you  ?"  asked  Arnold  savagely. 

"I  know  the  answer,"  was  Tobinson's  quiet  reply.  "There's 
no  'why*  about  it — to  me.  I  lived  forty  years  in  the  fighting 
and  found  out,  and  now  I'm  going  to  try  to  use  my  knowledge 
to  help  keep  the  ignorant  from  making  more  mistakes.  I  may 
influence  a  few  hundred  thinkers  who  will  influence  a  few 
hundred  more — and  the  ball  will  grow  and  grow.  But  what 
can  you  do?  Just  increase  the  despair  and  befuddlement  of 
the  average  man  by  pointing  out  wrongdoing  that  you  can't 
tell  him  how  to  stop.  Everybody  knows  there's  too  much 
misery  and  injustice  in  life — do  you  know  the  result  of  giving 
the  public  the  details?  It  merely  gives  them  an  excuse  for 
being  crooked  themselves.  Everybody  else  is  doing  it — why 
not  I  ?  That's  all  the  good  that  comes  of  exposure  without  en- 
lightenment. And  the  answer  is  not  in  your  eyes.  If  it  were, 
they  would  be  confident  and  serene.  For  me  there  is  no 
'Why/  " 

"No?"  asked  Arnold  sardonically:  "then  maybe  you  can 


242  God's  Man 

tell  me  why  two  of  my  friends  and  myself  who  had  intended 
to  live  decent  lives  and  be  some  help  to  our  fellows — why  we 
have  been  forced  into  shoddy  practises  and  shady  lives  ?  For 
exposing  a  rascal,  I  was  expelled  from  college.  For  shielding 
a  friend,  I  was  reduced  to  the  worst  kind  of  poverty.  For 
trying  to  get  justice  for  a  helpless  woman,  I  got  into  jail.  By 
using  influence  with  the  most  corrupt  kind  of  politicians  I 
got  out.  To  get  back  to  my  former  kind  of  life,  I  had  to  ac- 
cept a  position  with  a  man  who  is  a  wholesale  poisoner.  To 
get  the  little  money  I've  saved,  I  had  to  blackmail  my  em- 
ployer. .  .  .  And  with  my  two  friends  matters  are  much 
the  same — the  things  they  are  doing  were  forced  on  them  as 
they  were  forced  on  me. — Why?  Why? — Xo,  I  don't  know 
the  answer  and  I  don't  want  to,  if  I  have  to  be  entirely  de- 
stroyed to  learn  it." 

"The  answer  is  perfectly  plain,"  returned  the  other  gravely. 
"But  there's  no  use  telling  you  now — you  wouldn't  believe,  nor 
understand.  But  think  on  this,  and  apply  it  to  yourself  and 
your  friends.  "We  are  not  so  free  as  we  think.  A  gigantic 
Purpose  is  behind  all  we  are  forced  to  do — a  Purpose  that 
has  never  abated,  never  despaired,  never  relaxed,  never  been 
unsuccessful — in  the  end.  For  all  those  who  can  read  between 
the  lines,  the  world's  history  is  only  the  fulfilment  of  that 
Purpose.  And  knowing  something  of  It,  knowing  It  wastes 
no  energy,  I'll  tell  you  something.  You  haven't  had  all  those 
bitter  experiences  merely  to  come  down  here  and  live  out  the 
rest  of  your  life  with  an  unanswered  question  in  your  eyes. 
My  advice  was  needless.  You  will  go  back." 

"To-night,"  said  Arnold  defiantly,  "I  write  to  resign  my 
position  and  lease  my  house — "  But,  nevertheless,  he  was 
chilled  by  the  man's  assurance,  by  his  steady  gaze  that  now 
held  something  of  compassion. 

"Such  men  as  you  and  I — we  are  the  sacrifices,"  he  said,  so 
low  Arnold  hardly  heard  him — he  seemed  to  be  looking  past 
the  walls  of  the  hut  into  strange  wild  voids.  "Our  youth,  our 
hopes,  our  loves — they  all  go  to  learn  the  answer  whether  we 


No-Man's  Land  243 

will  it  or  not.  The  Cross  is  the  symbol  of  that  sacrifice.  Our 
lives  are  lost  that  others  may  be  saved;  our  identities  merged 
into  the  Purpose.  And  the  Eesurrection  is  the  symbol  of  the 
answer:  only  after  we  have  been  crucified  can  we  know  that 
all  has  not  been  lost.  All  has  been  gained."  He  started  to 
his  feet,  his  eyes  alight.  "And  then  and  then  only  can  we 
teach." 

He  caught  at  Arnold's  shoulders  and  stared  at  him  steadily. 
"I  knew  you  were  one  of  us  when  I  first  saw  that  head  of  yours. 
Do  you  think  I'd  have  wasted  time  on  a  mere  scribbler?  It's 
not  writing  with  us :  it's  teaching.  The  world  can  only  know 
from  us.  Writing  is  nothing :  scribble  and  be  damned.  That's 
what  I'd  have  said  to  your  tale-writer,  your  stylist,  your 
scholar.  .  .  .  But  you — when  you  write,  it  must  be  with 
your  life's  blood.  And  your  time  hasn't  come  yet — nor  your 
Calvary!" 

His  intensity  chilled;  it  was  as  if  the  hands  on  Arnold's 
shoulders  were  tons  of  ice.  The  boy  sank  into  a  chair,  still 
staring  into  the  unfathomable  eyes  that  blazed  with  strange 
fires,  hinted  at  strange  secrets.  And,  for  the  first  time,  began 
to  understand  dimly  that  his  way  through  the  shades  of  the 
unknown  jungle  called  Life  was  lit  by  some  dancing  will-o'- 
the-wisp  that  must  be  followed,  even  though  it  led  through  the 
pit  of  destruction.  But  it  lead  through.  .  .  . 

His  mentor  had  sunk  into  an  abstraction  even  more  pro- 
found, hardly  seeming  to  hear  the  younger  man  stammer  out 
his  good-by.  And  though  Arnold  repeated  it  several  times, 
this  strange  fellow  only  nodded,  staring  vacantly.  So  Arnold 
strode  off  toward  his  boat,  stumbling  through  the  wet  sand 
again.  The  new  stars  were  spangling  the  deep  blue  arch,  the 
ladder  to  the  moon  lay  lightly  upon  the  smooth  waters.  Near 
the  land  a  crow,  rising  toward  the  trees,  was  etched  in  the 
frosted  light;  in  which  Havre  de  Grace  far  beyond,  with  its 
outlying  clusters  of  white  houses  on  the  harbor  slopes,  seemed 
like  a  Mediterranean  town  of  Roman  days  built  on  hills  of 
silver  olive  trees.  A  fearsome  sense  of  all  this  beauty  caused 


244  God's  Man 

Arnold  to  gulp :  to  realize  how  far  a  man  must  yet  go  to  make 
himself  worthy  of  his  inheritance. 

Moodily  he  threw  his  strength  into  thrusting  down  his  boat 
from  high-water  mark,  into  getting  afloat  on  the  shining  mir- 
ror-like water.  His  oars,  as  they  washed  it,  set  up  little  trails 
of  phosphorescent  flame.  .  .  . 

It  was  not  until  he  had  left  the  peninsula  well  behind,  that 
he  heard  a  halloo  from  the  shore,  and  turning  saw  on  the 
shelving  shingle  of  the  shore  white  as  the  whitest  of  bones,  the 
elongated  shadow  of  a  man,  its  head  decapitated  by  the  rising 
tide — behind  it  the  stranger  calling: 

"Remember — call  on  me  when  you  need  me."  The  cer- 
tainty of  his  tone  chilled  Arnold  again.  Xeither  answering 
nor  giving  any  sign  he  had  heard,  he  bent  his  back  at  his 
rowing,  to  put  between  him  and  this  disquieting  one  all  pos- 
sible distance.  But  look  back  he  must,  and,  in  that  light,  he 
could  see  when  a  mile  had  been  covered  that  the  black  figure 
still  stood  on  the  white  sands.  It  was  not  until  he  had 
rounded  Havre  de  Grace  Harbor  that  he  lost  sight  of  it. 


CHAPTER    THREE 

CONTRABAND 
ENTER  CAPTAIN  DANNY  OF  THE  "CORMORANT" 

T  WAS  in  the  late  afternoon  of 

the  same  day that  Arn°ld  met  the 

philosopher  of  the  peninsula  thai 
Harbor  Inn — the  shelter  of  those 
who  came  by  sea — gained  another 
patron,  a  bronzed  sea-faring  man, 
'with  teeth  as  white  as  his  skin  was 
dark,  and  a  small  flat  head,  its 
shape  not  unlike  that  of  a  diamond- 
back  terrapin's;  small  of  body,  too, 
but  with  as  distended  a  chest  and 
as  swaggering  a  gait  as  though  he 
were  six  feet  tall :  a  sailor  by  every 
known  mark;  although  he  came  by  land,  on  the  Havre  de 
Grace  Express  as  the  natives  somewhat  egotistically  denom- 
inated the  one  fast  North  Shore  train.  Alighting,  this  per- 
son took  his  place  in  the  ancient  tally-ho,  to  drive  which  had 
once  been  an  aristocratic  pastime. 

The  stranger  seated  himself  beside  the  driver,  a  tanned  and 
grizzled  old  coachman,  with  many  marks  that  at  once  betray 
a  follower  of  the  sea.  He  introduced  himself  to  the  stranger 
as  Captain  Sallust  of  the  S.  S.  Oak  City;  which,  in  sum- 
mer, plied  between  the  Long  Island  and  the  Connecticut 


246  God's  Man 

shores.  He  owned  both  steamer  and  bus,  taking  his  driver's 
place  occasionally  for  want  of  other  occupation. 

"Are  you  now,  mate?"  returned  the  other,  seemingly  dis- 
appointed. "I  thought  from  the  cut  of  you,  you  were  at  the 
old  trade,  so  I  did.  But  there's  not  a  many  of  us  left,  Captain. 
Drumm,  my  name  is,  Dan  Drumm,  captain  of  the  finest  clipper- 
ship  that  ever  weathered  a  sou'wester  off  Hatteras.  One  of 
the  Van  Vhroon  coffee  clippers,  so  she  is.  Ever  hear  of  her? 
— she's  made  some  records  for  fast  sailing."  The  other  cap- 
tain (neither  of  them  had  a  captain's  ticket,  Drumm  a  first 
mate's,  Sallust  only  a  pilot's)  responded  with  some  polite 
mendacities,  which  seemed  to  gratify  his  fellow  seaman. 

"And  you're  thinking  of  dockin'  her  here  in  Port?"  he 
asked,  growing  enthusiastic  in  praise  of  a  certain  dockyard 
owned  and  controlled  by  his  sons  and  relatives.  But  it  was 
time  wasted — the  stranger  shook  his  head.  He  was  looking  for 
a  gentleman  his  owner  wanted  him  to  see  about  some  ship- 
ments. A  Mr.  Lommydoo.  Did  Captain  Sallust  know  him? 

"Lommydoo? — LommyJer/'  corrected  Captain  Sallust  in- 
structively. "Do  I  know  north  if  I  look  at  the  compass  ?  You 
can't  steer  a  course  in  these  waters  without  runnin'  a  Lommy- 
der  down.  0'  course,  there's  the  Parson,  and  then  there's 
Doctor  Will,  and  Lawyer  John,  and  Judge  Lommyder,  that's 
J.  P.,  and  there's  Billy,  that's  in  with  my  son  in  .  .  ."  He 
remembered  his  enthusiastic  and  seemingly  unprejudiced 
praise  of  the  dockyard  and  checked  himself.  "You  couldn't 
toss  a  biscuit  anywhere  between  here  and  the  Harbor,  and  not 
hit  a  Lommyder,"  he  concluded.  Captain  Drumm  explained 
that  the  one  he  sought  was  a  resident  of  Manhattan,  home  for 
a  visit. 

"Parson's  son,  Arnold,  I  guess  he  means,"  said  the  man  who 
was  holding  the  horses,  now  that  all  passengers  had  disem- 
barked save  the  stranger.  "He's  home :  I  see  him  last  night." 
Captain  Sallust  frowned  on  his  officious  assistant,  and  pointed 
toward  the  spire  of  the  L'Hommedieu  church,  aloft  the  hill. 


Contraband  247 

"They'll  jest  be  setting  down  to  supper,  I  reckon,"  he  said. 
"So  you  better  wait  less'n  you  know  'em  pretty  well.  Steer 
for  the  Harbor  Inn,  friend.  They  have  grub  there  that  suits 
a  shell-back." 

"Which  again  was  not  pure  disinterestedness  for  the  captain 
received  a  commission  on  all  passengers  sent  there  from  boat 
or  coach. 

At  the  Inn  Captain  Daniel  Drumm,  learning  there  was  no 
train  back  that  night,  engaged  a  room  in  which  many  other 
captains  had  slept ;  and,  having  finished  his  supper  in  the  tap- 
room, which  bore  all  possible  resemblance  to  a  ship's,  cabin, 
barring  its  size  and  its  great  log  fire,  he  set  out  for  L'Hom- 
medieu's  house — to  be  rewarded  for  his  steep  climb  in  the 
wind  and  rain  that  had  come  up  since  his  supper,  only  by  the 
information  that  the  gentleman  he  sought  had  not  yet  returned 
from  a  trip  out  in  the  Sound.  This  information  was  given 
by  the  Parson  himself,  who  cast  troubled  looks  at  the  weather. 
Captain  Drumm  declined  the  offer  to  wait — the  communica- 
tion he  had  come  to  make  was  not  one  to  be  heard  by  a  Par- 
son— and  stumbled  out  into  darkness  and  storm  again,  leaving 
the  request  that,  when  the  son  of  the  house  returned,  he  should 
seek  out  his  visitor  at  his  Inn.  It  was  a  most  important  mat- 
ter that  could  not  wait  until  the  morrow. 

"It  would  be  a  fine  piece  of  sail-making  if  that  young  man 
got  grabbed  by  Davy  Jones  after  I  took  this  trouble  for  him," 
grumbled  the  maritime  gentleman.  "A  fine  piece  of  keel-lay- 
ing that  would  be,  wouldn't  it?  And  it's  a  dirty  night.  I'll 
lay  he'll  not  be  far  from  shore,  though.  .  .  ." 

With  which  he  consoled  himself  as  he  picked  his  way  back 
to  the  narrow  little  lane  where  of  the  two  hexagonal  lanterns 
swinging  before  the  Inn  one  had  lost  its  light  from  the  wind. 
The  disagreeable  nature  of  the  night  had  kept  the  usual 
crowd  of  old  cronies  from  venturing  out  to  their  favorite  tap- 
room; so  the  captain,  after  changing  his  shoes  for  carpet 
slippers  borrowed  from  the  landlord,  disposed  himself  in  a 


248  God's  Man 

high-backed  chair  inside  the  great  bricked  fireplace,  and  finally 
fell  asleep. 

It  was  close  to  eleven  when  he  was  awakened  by  the  land- 
lord, who  was  about  to  extinguish  the  lights  and  lock  up  for 
the  night.  The  captain  was  voicing  his  disappointment  when 
the  beamed  oak  door  swung  open  from  the  street,  and  Arnold 
entered.  Captain  Danny  saw  him,  but  so  juvenile  was  his 
appearance  in  golf  trousers,  soft  rolling  collar  and  plaid  cap, 
that  the  captain  failed  to  identify  him  with  that  important 
agent  of  a  great  firm  whose  absence  from  Nevr  York  had  ne- 
cessitated this  journey  into  the  outlands.  The  host,  however, 
showed  the  late  visitor  that  deference  due  a  L'Hommedieu, 
lord  of  the  soil  (as  was  his  inherited  English  way)  and  pointed 
out  the  drowsy  Danny,  whom  Arnold  regarded  questioningly. 
Coming  on  top  of  the  peninsula  philosopher's  prophecy,  the 
news  that  some  one  from  New  York  had  been  inquiring  for 
him  had  increased  that  sense  of  fatality  that  had  laid  hold  of 
him  in  the  little  hut:  so  Arnold  had  hastened  out  again,  not 
waiting  to  change  his  damp  clothes. 

Captain  Danny  could  not  repress  altogether  the  look  of  dis- 
appointment that  Arnold's  youth  had  caused — a  parson's  son 
was  bad  enough;  that  meant  foolish  scruples  to  overcome; 
but  a  mere  boy — could  he  be  trusted  with  a  secret  likely  to 
cost  Captain  Danny  property  and  liberty  ?  Yet,  from  the  ac- 
counts received  such  business  as  he  had  must  be  transacted 
either  with  Mr.  Waldemar  or  his  confidential  secretary,  Mr. 
L'Hommedieu. 

"How  d'you  do,  sir?"  He  gave  Arnold  an  ingratiating  smile. 
"I'm  very  glad  to  see  you,  sir,  so  I  am :  Drumm,  Dan  Drumm's 
my  name,  Captain  Danny  they  call  me,  and  the  fact  is,  I  am — 
Captain  of  the  Cormorant  coffee  clipper,  Mr.  Lommydoo. 
Ever  hear  of  her — she's  made  record  runs  between  here  and 
Eio.  A  fine  ship,  Mr.  Lommydoo,  as  fine  as  ever  had  her 
keel  laid  in  this  land  of  the  free — which  means  the  finest  in 
the  world." 


Contraband  249 

"Go  awn,"  put  in  the  landlord  unpatriotically,  reverting  to 
his  grandfather's  view-points :  "the  best  boats  come  out  of  the 
Clyde — everybody  knows  that  as  knows  anything." 

"Not  to  contradict  you  any,  mate/'  returned  Captain  Danny 
with  a  velvety  snarl,  "but  this  here  conversation  happens  to  be 
private,  so  it  does,  and  you'll  oblige  me  by  sheering  off  to  the 
windward,  if  you  ain't  any  objections.  ...  I  come  from 
your  office,  Mr.  Lommydoo.  Your  boy  tells  me  you've  steered 
for  home,  so  I  follows  you.  And  here  I  am,  begging  this  here 
fresh-water  gent's  pardon  for  venturing  to  request  privacy  jest 
because  I  pay  for  it." 

The  landlord,  who  had  grown  rosier  of  gills  since  the  first 
intimation  of  his  intrusion,  now  advanced,  choking  with  the 
intention  of  ordering  forth  from  his  inheritance  this  impu- 
dent stranger.  But  Arnold  laid  a  pacifying  hand  on  his 
arm,  and  the  two  were  left  alone  with  the  great  smolder- 
ing logs,  the  Inn  being  now  shuttered  and  lightless  along  its 
lower  floor.  When  the  landlord's  last  footstep  resounded  on 
the  creaking  stairway,  Captain  Danny  wasted  no  further  time. 

"I've  got  two  hundred  cans  to  sell — the  pure  stuff,"  said  he 
rapidly,  "for  which  I  want  twenty  dollars  gold  apiece  and  I'd 
like  the  money  right  away,  sir."  This  information,  transmitted 
in  a  thrilling  whisper,  failed  to  stir  Arnold. 

"You'll  have  to  wait  until  Mr.  Waldemar  gets  back  from 
the  West,"  he  returned.  ... 

"Now,  mister,"  pleaded  the  other  feverishly,  "don't  tell  me 
that.  That  would  be  a  fine  piece  of  docking,  that  would.  Dan- 
iel Drumm's  as  sharp  as  a  steel  trap,  a  regular  old  gray-whis- 
kered water-rat.  I  got  friends  in  Yucatan  that's  done  busi- 
ness with  you,  mister,  and  thaf  s  got  cheques  with  A.  L.  H. 
signed  on  'em  under  owner's  name.  And  these  here  friends 
they  says :  'Go  hunt  up  A.  L.  H.  and  if  you  find  his  name's 
Lommydoo  don't  be  surprised  none/  And  I  ain't,  'cause  I'm 
a  regular  old  shark  for  never  being  surprised  none.  And  if  I 
gets  a  cheque  for  four  thousand  dollars  signed  A.  L.  H.,  don't 


250  God's  Man 


you  be  surprised  aan*  if  you  gits  a  present  fr«a  an  u 
admirer,  juet  like  barlyque  queens  get  bookay*  :   Me  T*   he 
winked. 

"I  don't  know  any  one  in  Yucatan,"  said  Arnold,  becoming 
tense  and  suspicious,  and  lying  coolly.  The  government  might 
have  wind  of  the  syndicate's  operations  and  have  sent  this 
man  to  offer  him  the  interdicted  smoking-opium  ;  it  would 
prove  their  traffic  was  illegal  if  he  accepted  it. 

"Not  Don  Guillerme  Gomey  Pereira?"  asked  Captain 
Danny  with  a  decided  Latin-American  accent.  "Takes  my 
meals  on  his  hacienda  homeward  bound  from  Rio:  ginseng, 
he  grows,  which  is  in  demand  among  the  New  York  Chinks. 
A  little  private  venture  of  my  own."  He  winked  so  pro- 
digiously this  time  that  Arnold  was  quite  sure  this  particular 
ginseng  was  a  euphemism  for  the  forbidden  pen-yen.  "This 
time,"  Captain  Danny  went  on,  "he  says  to  me  the  Don  does  : 
'Danielo,  my  boy,'  he  says,  'you  do  like  I  done  and  do  business 
with  A.  L.  H.  Shipped  him  two  hundredweight  of  gum  I 
did  and  got  my  cheque  prompt,  and  I'd  ship  him  something 
what's  in  that  warehouse  over  there,'  says  he  —  speaking  Span- 
ish he  was,  of  course,  and  dignified  like  all  those  Dons,  but 
may  I  drop  dead  at  my  wheel  or  fall  out  of  my  crows-nest 
next  trip  if  it  don't  mean  just  what  I'm  telling  you.  And 
then  he  steers  me  over  his  poppy  fields  and  there's  a  big  shack 
with  a  lot  of  peons  stirrin'  and  pourin'  and  cookin'  and  sweat- 
in',  and  a  big  Manchu  Chink,  six  foot  three  with  a  pair  of  big 
horn  spectacles  on  him,  bossing  the  job.  'Tell  el  capitano 
where  you  worked  one  time,'  says  the  Don,  and  the  Chink  an- 
swers in  English  as  good  as  what  I  talk  myself:  *Li-un  fac- 
tory, Shanghai'  —  not  Fak-Lung  :  Li-un"  Danny  interpolated 
triumphantly.  "Then  the  Chink  says  :  'I  make  'urn  all  same 
Li-un  here.  You  smoke?'  ^No,'  I  told  the  heathen  devil. 
'Too  bad,  I  show  you  better/  he  says;  and  takes  us  into  his 
own  hut  where  there's  a  pipe  and  lies  down  and  cooks  him- 
self a  pill.  'Smoke?'  says  he,  holding  it  under  my  nose.  And 
then  I  says  :  'Danny,  here's  the  real  thing,  so  it  is.  Thousands 


Contraband  251 

would  like  to  be  in  your  shoes,  so  they  would.'  "Well,  the  long 
and  short  of  it's  this,  Mr.  Lommydoo:  just  when  the  Senor 
Don's  got  a  fortune  in  hop,  the  United  States  up  and  passes 
that  law  about  no  pen-yen  being  brought  in.  Which  is  a  fine 
piece  of  sail-making.  And  the  Senor's  got  to  sell  it  to  those 
that've  got  the  nerve  to  dodge  United  States  Customs  sharks. 
Old  Danny  done  it :  he's  a  long-nosed  ferret  when  it  comes  to 
dodging.  And  here's  two  hundred  cans  of  pure  Li-un  offered 
at  half  of  what  you  kin  git  for  it.  I  could  peddle  it  myself, 
but  there's  Custom  spies  all  over  Chinatown  and  they  might 
keel-haul  me  before  I  unshipped  a  quarter  of  my  cargo.  With 
your  crew  and  discipline  and  no  suspicion,  you  ought  to  git 
fifty  a  can  for  it,  so  you  ought." 

"I  ought  to,"  said  Arnold  mechanically. 

"So  you  ought,"  agreed  Captain  Danny  eagerly.  "Why — 
what's  the  matter,  Mr.  Lommydoo  ?" 

The  use  of  the  personal  pronoun  had  electrified  Arnold.  His 
eyes  shone,  his  hands  trembled,  his  body  shook.  "You  didn't 
tell  anybody  at  the  office  what  you  came  to  see  me  about  ?"  he 
demanded  fiercely,  clutching  at  the  old  fellow's  knee.  A  look 
of  scorn  answered  him.  Arnold  breathed  free.  Why  not  a 
personal  deal?  This  came  as  no  response  to  an  order  from 
Waldemar:  he  had  ordered  only  gum.  This  was  a  windfall 
into  his  own  lap.  He  saw  now  by  seizing  on  such  lucky 
chances  as  this  how  men  made  fortunes.  Waldemar  was  away. 
Arnold  could  utilize  the  warehouse  force  to  ship  the  stuff  to 
various  people  whom  he  knew  would  be  eager  to  receive  it. 
That  is,  if  Enoch  Apricott  and  his  patron,  Mother  Mybus, 
would  not  want  the  lot — which,  in  all  probability,  they  would. 
He  knew,  from  the  tales  of  Pink  and  Beau,  that  Apricott  sold 
the  inferior  stuff  of  his  own  manufacture  for  thirty  dollars  the 
can.  This  would  bring  at  least  a  third  more,  therefore  Apri" 
cott  should  be  willing  to  pay  twenty-five  at  least — five  thou- 
sand dollars.  .  .  . 

"Give  me  half  a  dozen  of  the  cans  to  examine  to-morrow 
and  I'll  give  you  my  cheque  for  three  thousand  if  I  find  them 


252  God's  Man 

right/'  Arnold  said,  recovering  his  composure.  A  wail  from 
Captain  Danny  rent  the  air.  Mr.  Lommydoo  would  get  more 
than  double  that.  .  .  .  Sooner  would  he  take  chances  and 
peddle  it  himself.  It  was  a  fine  piece  of  marlin-spiking,  so 
it  was. 

"Then  good  night/'  said  Arnold,  rising.  He  had  learned 
well  the  role  of  business  man  since  his  Waldemar  employment : 
had  chaffered  with  too  many  buyers  and  sellers  not  to  know 
the  tricks  of  the  game. 

"And  a  lick  and  a  promise  for  all  my  risk  and  trouble?" 
whined  the  diminutive  captain :  "that's  a  fine  piece  of — " 

"Don't  be  absurd,"  returned  Arnold  in  a  weary  tone.  "You 
never  paid  that  Mexican  more  than  six  or  seven  dollars  apiece. 
And  did  you  pay  duty  ? — or  freight  ? — ]STo !  Then  you're 
doubling  your  money.  I'm  not  even  doing  that.  .  .  . 
Take  it  or  leave  it."  His  heart  was  bounding  high:  this  sly 
little  seaman  would  not  refuse. 

"The  way  that  Senor  Don  spoke  to  me  of  Mr.  A.  L.  H.,  I 
never  thought  he'd  drive  a  Scotch-Jew's  trade  with  a  poor 
simple  old  sailor  man,"  grumbled  the  apparently  grieved  and 
disappointed  mariner. 

"Well?"  asked  Arnold  sharply. 

"All  right,  I  give  in,"  said  Captain  Danny.  "Thirty-five 
hundred !" 

Arnold  turned  away  and  reached  the  door.  "Thirty-two- 
fifty/'  screamed  the  other,  catching  his  arm:  and,  when  Ar- 
nold threw  off  his  hold:  "Have  it  your  own  way,  sir.  But 
it's  a  fine  piece  of — " 

"Of  what  ?"  demanded  Arnold,  and  Captain  Danny  grinned. 

"Have  a  cigar,  sir,"  he  said  soothingly;  "best  they  make  on 
the  Yucatan  coast,  which  is  to  Cuba  like  a  captain  to  a 
cabin-boy." 

"There's  a  train  to-morrow  at  eight-ten,"  said  Arnold,  the 
cigar  directing  attention  to  this  information  on  a  wall  time- 
table. "I'll  meet  you  at  the  station.  Be  prompt,  now,  because 


Contraband  253 

I  want  to  get  the  business  over,  and  be  back  here  by  night- 
fall." 

He  spoke  defiantly,  as  though  the  peninsula  philosopher 
heard  him.  How  little  that  pretended  sage  knew,  after  all, 
with  his  Purposes,  and  Sacrifices,  and  Whys — and  what  nots ! 
Here,  like  a  ripe  apple,  there  was  about  to  fall  into  his  hands 
sufficient  extra  money  for  more  than  another  year  of  uninter- 
rupted work  at  Havre  de  Grace.  By  the  time  five  thousand 
was  spent,  he  could  have  won  honor  and  respect  with  what 
he  had  to  write.  He  wished  the  philosopher  were  here  to  wit- 
ness his  triumph — he  and  his  "fights/'  .  .  . 

"I'll  be  there,  don't  you  never  fear,  Mr.  A.  L.  H.,"  said  the 
owner  of  contraband.  "You  can  go  to  sleep  on  that:  you 
kin  set  your  alarm-clock  by  Captain  Danny.  Good  night,  sir, 
and  all  the  harm  I  wish  you  is  that  you  sleep  like  a  sailor  on 
watch  when  the  mate's  groggy — good  night,  Mr.  Lommydoo." 

And  after  Arnold  had  gone,  the  sailor-man  soliloquized: 
"Think  you've  done  something  clever,  I  suppose.  And  I'd 
been  glad  to  git  twenty-five  hundred."  On  which  he  grinned 
delightedly  and  sought  the  ancient  room  where  so  many  cap- 
tains had  slept  before  him. 


CHAPTER    FOUR 


THE  HAPPENINGS  OF  A  SINGLE  DAY 

I.    QUBNTIN  QUIVVERS BENEFACTOR 

IFTY-SIX  thousand,  six  hun- 
dred dollars,  net  profit,"  repeated 
Mr.  Peter  Quimby  Quivvers,  the 
"P.  Quentin"  of  his  own  manu- 
facture whose  name  did  not  in 
y  way  figure  upon  the  station- 
ery, or  in  the  gold  lettering  on 
1 1  doors  and  windows,  of  the  "In- 
stantaneous Boiler  Company,  Lim- 
ited/' in  the  private  office  of  which 
he  sat  undoubted  master.  Its 
vice-president,  general  manager 
and  secretary,  Mr.  Mink,  had  just  completed  the  balancing  of 
its  actual  cash-book  for  Mr.  Quivvers'  benefit — although  in  the 
outer  office  the  ostensible  one  was  on  view  for  stockholders 
and  investors,  showing  a  considerable  net  loss. 

"Fifty-six  thousand  profit,"  Mr.  Quiwers  again  repeated; 
whistled  long  and  loud,  then  smiled,  patting  Mr.  Mink's 
shoulder.  "Pretty,  soft  for  Minky,  eh  ?  a  dub  who  was  play- 
ing paper-weight  to  a  park  bench  a  year  ago.  The  five  thou- 
sand that's  coming  to  you  'ull  put  you  so  firmly  on  your  pins 
an  ice-wagon  couldn't  knock  you  off  again." 

But  Mr.  Mink  only  scowled  his  dislike  for  his  patron.  "That 
kind  of  money's  got  the  curse  of  God  on  it,"  he  said  sourly. 


The  Happenings  of  a  Single  Day   255 

"I  don't  expect  any  luck  with  nay  bit  of  it,  I  tell  you  that. 
It'll  be  a  lucky  thing  for  me  if  something  don't  happen  to  the 
kid  or  friend  wife  for  mixing  into  a  thing  like  this.  .  .  ." 
He  continued  in  a  like  strain  to  the  great  amusement  of  his 
benefactor,  who  whistled  in  gentle  forgiveness  as  though 
humoring  an  amiable  lunatic. 

But  one  type  of  man  uses  the  expression  "friend  wife."  One 
passes  a  thousand  Mr.  Minks  at  the  noon  hour  when  from 
skyscraper  rabbit-warrens  multitudinous  rabbits  come  forth, 
and  nibble  in  crowded  lunch-rooms,  shedding  office-coats  of 
alpaca,  paper  cuff-guards  like  gauntlets  without  gloves,  green 
eye-shades — daylight  being  as  rare  in  the  warrens  of  the  hu- 
man rabbits  as  in  their  animal  prototypes.  Thus  is  the  clerk 
type  developed:  entry-clerk,  bill-clerk,  file-clerk,  bond-clerk, 
stenographic  clerk,  copying  clerk — all  manner  of  clerks;  as 
similar  in  appearance  as  in  tastes  and  opinions — or  lack  of 
them.  As  great  businesses  become  gigantic  machines,  creative 
skill  and  initiative  become  concentrated  in  the  lords  of  the 
dynamos :  the  rabbits  do  but  oil  wheels  and  keep  belts  in  order. 

Such  an  oiler  and  order-keeper,  then,  was  Mr.  Mink.  You 
might  pass  him  in  the  rabbit  swarm  multi-million  times  yet  see 
him  not,  so  colorless  was  he,  as  characterless  as  a  drink  of 
water — and  as  necessary.  Yet,  as  human  rabbits  do,  he  imag- 
ined he  had  a  "strong"  face,  "not  handsome  but  strong,"  as 
Mrs.  Rabbit  had  learned  to  say  to  friends  and  neighbors  and 
to  expect  in  response :  "Like  my  Ed" — or  "Hen" — or  "Willie." 
And  because  each  rabbit  has  found  one  person  who  thinks  him 
a  strong  man,  each  Mrs.  Rabbit  is  loved  devotedly  despite 
eternal  bickering :  this  indeed,  constituting  their  chief,  almost 
their  only,  relaxation.  Dear  to  the  rabbits  is  that  bit  of  dog- 
gerel that  enables  them  to  exchange  knowing  grins  and, 
when  drinking,  to  shout  with  wild  laughter :  "My  wife's  gone 
to  the  country,  hooray — Hoo — Ray;"  but  each  is  lonely  when 
she  does  seek  the  sylvan  solitudes  taking  "the  children  with 
her;"  and  she  is  sure  to  be  welcomed  back  with  frantic  en- 
dearments. 


256  God's  Man 

The  reference  of  Mr.  Quivvers  to  the  park  bench  was  not 
totally  justified.  .  .  .  Mr.  Mink  had,  indeed,  to  sat  a 
year  since,  and  had  seen  Quivvers  loom  up  in  the  apparent  role 
of  angel  of  light.  But  a  perfectly  good  hall-room  held  Mr. 
Mink's  inherited  hair-trunk  containing  his  Sunday  clothes  and 
stiff  shirts;  and  enough  was  in  his  pockets  for  said  hall-room 
to  go  on  holding  them  for  a  week  or  so  longer.  But  then  there 
would  be  an  ignominious  return  to  Parsonville  and  a  pitiful 
plea  for  his  old  place  in  the  Emporium.  Wags  and  wits  would 
refer  for  the  remainder  of  his  life  to  "that  city  fellow,  Paul 
Mink/'  howling  with  glee.  He  had  left  Parsonville  in  some 
pomp  to  take  a  place  secured  for  him  by  the  correspondence 
school  that  had  taught  him  stenography. 

But  his  lack  of  fundamentals  had  rendered  his  proficiency 
in  pot-hooks  a  useless  accomplishment :  his  spelling  and  punc- 
tuation made  the  value  of  his  speed  negligible.  .  .  .  And 
the  correspondence  school  had  to  fulfil  their  promises  to  other 
graduates:  they  had  done  what  they  promised,  he  could  ex- 
pect no  more.  .  .  .  Then  the  usual  story  of  a  man  of 
minor  value  engaged  in  competition  with  a  whole  city-full.  He 
complained  luck  had  not  been  with  him,  until  Quivvers — who 
had  Mink's  acquaintance  from  the  days  when  Quivvers  sold 
scented  soap  "on  the  road" — began  to  portray  the  before  men- 
tioned angel. 

To  Quivvers,  Mink's  very  defects  were  abnormal  virtues. 
Out  of  the  wise  East  comes  the  saying  that  most  difficult  of 
all  is  to  find  an  honest  partner  for  a  swindle :  it  might  well 
have  been  written  impossible — save  when  honesty  is  in  direct 
relation  to  density.  Even  now,  when  the  cataclysm  was  upon 
him,  Mr.  Mink  sought  to  convince  himself  that,  actually,  the 
angel  of  light  had  also  been  deceived,  endeavored  to  explain 
away  the  duplicate  cash-books.  .  .  .  "You  give  me  your 
word  you  thought  Mr.  Marchanter's  invention  was  on  the 
level?"  he  now  asked.  An  affirmation  would  greatly  assist 
in  his  moral  whitewashing. 

Mr.  Marchanter  was  the  president  and  secretary  of  the  com- 


The  Happenings  of  a  Single  Day   257 

pany,  the  inventor  of  the  Instantaneous  Boiler,  a  device  that 
when  attached  to  a  spigot  and  to  an  electric  plug,  yielded 
boiling  water  within  the  minute.  Mr.  Quiwers  had  found  the 
capital  to  form  a  limited  corporation  to  market  his  dear 
friend's  patent;  Marchanter,  president,  and  Mink,  treasurer, 
holding  all  the  other  offices.  Quantities  of  stock  had  been  sold. 
For  a  brief  period,  the  article  had  been  manufactured  and,  for 
one  month,  had  been  widely  advertised.  There  was  no  doubt 
it  could  do  precisely  what  it  claimed:  the  demonstrations 
proved  it.  Electrical  and  mechanical  engineers  had  examined 
the  network  of  tiny  wires  within  each  metal  cap,  pronouncing 
the  invention  excellent;  and  the  brief  advertising  campaign 
had  showered  Instantaneous  Boilers  in  all  sections  where  hot 
water  was  a  luxury:  in  districts  where  farmhouses  had  been 
built  before  the  days  of  plumbing;  even  among  city-dwellers 
who  let  fires  lapse  of  nights.  Many  were  bought  in  hospitals 
and  in  other  places  where  drinking  water  is  boiled.  Its  suc- 
cess was  complete. 

Then  the  electric  bills  came  in,  and  it  was  discovered  that 
the  Instantaneous  Boiler  was  almost  as  costly  in  upkeep  as  was 
a  motor-car.  The  actual  cost  of  one  fluid  drachm  of  water 
boiled  by  Instantaneous  methods  was  almost  equal  to  the  same 
amount  of  radium.  Only  the  companies  of  electric  power  sup- 
ply had  a  good  word  for  the  inventor  ...  so  that  indig- 
nant letters  had  begun  to  reach  the  company's  offices,  enraged 
owners  of  Instantaneous  Boilers  resident  in  Manhattan  and  its 
environs  made  violent  calls  on  its  inventor,  whose  artistic 
temperament  was  so  annoyed,  after  a  week  or  more  of  such 
insults,  that  he  had  decamped — to  all  appearances — for  Eu- 
rope, taking  with  him  one-half  the  cash  on  hand:  claiming 
this  as  his  share  in  the  letter  he  left  behind. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  Mr.  Marchanter  was  no  inventor  at  all. 
Mr.  Quiwers  had  long  since  discovered  that  by  studying  the 
reports  of  the  Patent  Office,  he  could  find  many  impractical 
patents  that  could  be  purchased  for  next  to  nothing.  In  this 
way  he  came  to  know  all  manner  of  inventors,  some  of  whom 


258  God's  Man 

often  brought  him  their  models  before  sending  them  to  be 
registered.  The  Instantaneous  Boiler  had  come  to  him  in 
this  way,  and  he  had  bought  the  sole  rights  for  a  small  sum, 
which  would  permit  that  crack-brained  enthusiast,  its  origi- 
nator, to  continue  work  on  his  masterpiece — an  aluminum 
motor  for  aeroplanes. 

So,  "My  dear  Mink,"  said  Mr.  Quivvers,  shaking  his  head, 
"I  am  surprised  as  you  that  Marchanter's  invention  has  not 
been  a  gold-mine  for  all  of  us.  .  .  ."  But  he  said  it 
negligently,  flippantly.  No  longer  under  the  necessity  of 
humoring  this  nonentity,  Quivvers  was  deriving  some  amuse- 
ment from  his  qualms  of  conscience. 

"I  don't  believe  you,"  said  Mink,  suddenly  moved  to  wrath. 
"And  I  don't  intend  to  do  what  you  say  at  all.  My  good 
name  is  involved.  I  won't  be  thought  a  cheat  and  a  ras- 
cal. I—" 

"Your  good  name?"  murmured  Mr.  Quivvers,  smiling 
broadly.  "Why,  whoever  heard  of  you,  Mink?  Quite  a 
clever  little  clown,  ain't  you?  Go  on,  you  scalawag!"  And 
he  nudged  him  with  an  elegant  elbow. 

"You  meant  to  cheat  all  along,"  continued  Mink  wildly. 
"That's  why  you  wouldn't  have  your  name  mentioned  in  con- 
nection with  the  Instantaneous — you  and  your  brokerage 
firm  not  being  allowed  to  float  stocks  and  sell  'em,  too.  .  .  . 
And  listen,  I'll  put  the  police  on  to  that  villain  Marchanter. 
They'll  get  him  before  he  gets  to  Europe.  I'll  see  the  people 
who  invested  in  any  stock  my  name  is  mixed  up  with  get  a 
square  deal.  I — " 

"Quit  it,  old  pal,"  commanded  Quivvers,  rising.  "Quit  it 
and  behave.  You  can't  do  it  any  more  than  I  can  dive  off 
the  Singer  Building  into  a  bottle  of  ink.  Behave  yourself,  you 
little  rascal."  And  he  grinned  at  Mr.  Mink.  "Don't  you 
know  when  you  signed  that  cheque  with  Marchanter  for  the 
twenty-five  thousand  that  you  were  aiding  and  abetting  a  fel- 
ony ?  Why  did  you  sign  it  ?" 

<<Why,"  faltered  Mr.  Mink,  "why,  he  said  it  was  for  ex- 


The  Happenings  of  a  Single  Day   259 

penses  of  installing  machinery  for  our  factory,  and  I  called 
you  up  on  the  phone  and  you  said  it  was  all  right.  .  .  ." 

"Did  you  have  any  witnesses  to  that  call  ?"  Quivvers  was 
still  grinning.  He  knew  very  well  only  Marchanter  had  been 
present. 

"So  you  see,"  he  summed  up  for  the  benumbed  Mink,  "you 
see  you're  just  a  little  comedian,  'cause  only  a  comedian  would 
send  for  the  police  to  arrest  himself.  ...  If  you  hadn't 
put  your  name  to  that  cheque  along  with  Marchanter's  he 
couldn't  have  gone  off  with  the  goods.  The  court  would 
probably  compel  you  to  give  up  the  part  he  gave  you  for 
helping  him.  Swindle  the  company,  would  you?  Ah,  you 
little  laughing  rascal,  you — "  Mr.  Mink  interrupted  with 
a  flow  of  profane  protestations. 

"7  know,  old  pal,"  acknowledged  Mr.  Quivvers;  "but  the 
court  won't.  As  for  mixing  me  into  it,  not  a  chance.  All 
the  papers  you've  got  to  show  prove  I  was  one  of  the  come- 
ons ;  bought  stock  myself — " 

"Yes,  and  sold  it  before  you  sold  any  of  the  company's," 
returned  Mink  bitterly.  "Got  it  for  next  to  nothing  and 
used  our  advertising  to  sell  it  at  par.  Why,  you  must  have 
made  a  fortune  out  of  this  swindle." 

"And  you,  dear  old  pal,  how  about  your  salary?  About 
five  times  what  you  ever  got  or  ever  will  get.  And  five  thou- 
sand, five  more  than  you'd  ever  saved.  So  considering  the 
amount  of  brains  invested,  you're  five  times  better  off  than 
me.  .  .  .  Stop  that  blubbering  and  hire  yourself  out 
with  a  circus  where  your  talents  as  a  clown  ?ull  be  worth  a 
fortune  to  you — " 

For  Mink  had  put  his  head  between  his  hands  and  was 
endeavoring  to  conceal  evidences  of  internal  conflict  and  con- 
sternation. "A  dark  wet  cell  for  yours,"  Quivvers  went  on; 
"never  nobody  to  talk  to  and  bugs  running  around  the  floor 
that  never  were  in  any  encyclopedia.  Think  of  being  alone 
with  all  kinds  of  bugs.  Not  alone.  You'd  have  a  cell-mate 
— a  cockroach  you  could  put  a  saddle  on." 


260  God's  Man 

He  laughed  so  heartily  that  he  must  put  up  a  fleshy  jeweled 
hand  to  a  thick  throat  to  loosen  his  collar;  for  Master  Quiv- 
vers had  become  bulky  since  his  college  days.  Then  he 
pushed  the  telephone  receiver  toward  Mink.  "Go  on,  phone 
the  police,  why  don't  you?  Marchanter's  getting  ten  min- 
utes' more  start  of  you." 

He  gazed  idly  out  of  the  window  at  the  forest  of  shaft- 
like  buildings  below;  coolly  he  awaited  his  companion's  com- 
posure. "As  it  is,"  he  went  on  when  that  person's  short  sobs 
no  longer  annoyed  him,  "you  go  home  to  Parsonville,  set  up 
a  little  place  of  your  own;  have  everybody  imagining  you 
made  a  monkey  out  of  old  Manhattan ;  had  it  jumping  through 
that.  .  .  .  The  wife  'ull  think  you're  a  hero,  you  get  to 
be  one  of  Parsonville's  leading  lodge-members  and  teach  your 
children  to  bless  the  name  of  your  best  friend,  P.  Quentin 
Quivvers,  Esquire.  Get  me,  old  scout?  .  .  .  Now  we'd 
better  have  a  dress-rehearsal  of  what  you'll  tell  the  stock- 
holders at  the  meeting.  I'll  leave  six  thousand  for  cash  on 
hand — wouldn't  do  to  make  a  clean  sweep.  The  remainder, 
the  authentic  cash-book  shows,  was  paid  out  for  experimental 
purposes  and  new  machinery.  The  bills  are  all  0.  K. — "  he 
touched  a  bundle  of  receipts  from  the  Columbia  Iron  and 
Molding  Company,  organized  under  the  presidency  of  other 
men  of  straw  in  Quivvers'  employ,  their  offices  occupying  one 
small  room  in  an  inexpensive  building.  "And  you've  got  the 
lease  on  our  proposed  factory — "  (This  was  a  ramshackle 
building  on  a  piece  of  waste  land,  bought  up  by  Quivvers — six 
months'  advance  rental  from  the  Instantaneous  Boiler  Com- 
pany immediately  indemnifying  him.)  "Then  there's  the 
office  furniture  and  safe  and  the  boilers  on  hand, — all  assets. 
Be  sure  and  list  everything  down  to  the  fountain-pens  to 
prove  you,  the  vice-president  and  treasurer,  are  a  strictly 
honest  man,  and  meanwhile  be  kind  enough  to  add  your  name 
to  this  perfectly  good  blank  cheque  Marchanter  left  with  me 
some  time  ago  lest  we  be  embarrassed  by  his  leave-taking." 
He  grinned  again.  "It's  dated  two  months  ago.  I  give  you 


The  Happenings  of  a  Single  Day   261 

my  cheque  for  your  five  thousand,  old  pal,  when  you  put  your 
neat  little  John  Hancock  along  with  March's." 

Mr.  Mink  took  the  extended  pen  and  traced  his  name,  not 
raising  his  dull  eyes,  and  Mr.  Quivvers,  after  scrutinizing  it, 
made  a  calculation  and  directed  him  to  fill  in  the  cheque  for 
the  company's  balance  less  the  six  thousand  cash  to  be  left 
to  the  creditors.  "And  here's  your  cheque,  my  little  clown," 
he  said  in  the  winning  tone  of  a  friend  of  humanity.  "Xow, 
I  should  advise  you  to  set  everything  in  order  and  notify  the 
stockholders  of  the  terribly  sad  news.  It's  the  only  thing  left 
for  an  honorable  man  to  do." 

Quivvers,  as  he  spoke,  was  glancing  at  the  list  of  those  same 
stockholders;  and,  his  gaze  fixed  on  the  name  of  Archibald 
Hartogensis,  laughed  aloud.  "I'd  sooner  see  his  there  than 
any  ten  others,"  he  said,  "sooner  than  anybody's  else  except 
that  big  burly  Hugo,  or  that  white  rat,  Arnold  L'Hommedieu. 
Three  smart  fellows !"  he  snarled.  ...  It  was  seldom 
he  permitted  his  face  to  assume  any  save  a  jovial  humorous 
expression,  had  long  schooled  his  features  to  that  end.  Well 
that  he  had,  for,  as  he  gloated  over  Archie's  rage  when  he 
should  discover  his  great  loss — he  was  by  far  the  largest 
stockholder — Quivvers  snapped  his  teeth  savagely,  and  his 
heavy  chin  hung  in  ugly  folds  over  his  high  collar,  his  small 
sharp  eyes  narrowed,  his  whole  appearance  was  one  to  fear 
and  to  distrust. 

Presently  he  aroused  himself  from  this  pleasant  carnival  of 
gratified  spite.  "Come  on,  Minky,"  he  said,  struggling  back 
to  his  usual  air  of  amused  contempt,  "I  must  rehearse  you 
in  what  you've  got  to  say  to  them.  Your  cue's  the  honest 
man  grieved  and  hurt  at  false  human  nature.  You've  been 
victimized  along  with  them.  Lucky  you've  got  the  kind  of 
face  grafters  pick  out  to  sell  the  Flatiron  Building  to.  ... 
Now,  suppose  I'm  the  stockholders  and  you're  going  to  break 
the  bad  news.  I'll  storm  and  rave  and  ask  furious  questions 
and  you'll  storm  and  rave  and  answer  them.  Now  get  what 
you  call  your  brain  ready.  I'm  going  to  begin.  .  .  ." 


262  God's  Man 

All  through  the  afternoon  they  continued,  actor  and  stage- 
director.  And  before  he  went  Mr.  Quivvers  dictated  the  let- 
ter Mr.  Mink  was  to  send  out,  and  Mr.  Mink  took  it  down 
rapidly  and  incorrectly.  After  which  Mr.  Quivvers  slipped 
into  his  bell-shaped  frock  overcoat,  on  one  sleeve  of  which 
swung  his  walking-stick,  and  taking  from  a  gold  case,  mono- 
gramed  in  diamonds,  a  fifty-cent  cigar,  lighted  it  and  called 
for  a  taxi  to  drive  him  to  his  club,  where,  as  P.  Quentin  Quiv- 
vers, dealer  in  unlisted  securities,  bucket-shop"  keeper  in  the 
parlance  of  the  curb,  he  had  the  admiration  and  esteem  of 
many  minor  lights  of  the  stage,  to  whom  his  appearance  was 
the  equivalent  of  a  good  dinner,  washed  down  by  a  respectably 
aged  wine. 

Conscious  of  his  worthiness,  he  smiled  pleasantly  upon  a 
newsboy,  giving  him  a  dollar  for  a  paper,  the  boy's  perfervid 
thanks  and  those  of  the  taxicab  driver,  whom  he  bade  keep  a 
quantity  of  change,  absolving  his  conscience  from  any  sins; 
indeed,  giving  him  the  pleasant  feeling  of  a  philanthropist. 
Besides  had  he  not  been  generous  to  Marchanter  and  poor 
little  Minky — had  saved  both,  in  fact,  from  an  untimely  end, 
restoring  them,  solvent,  to  their  overjoyed  families.  But  he 
did  not  expect  gratitude.  This  world  was  an  unappreciative 
sort  of  place — the  consciousness  of  having  done  good  must 
suffice. 

He  entered  his  west  of  Sixth  Avenue  Club,  cheery  and 
bright,  hailing  all  within  sight  cordially,  inviting  them  to 
refreshment,  bringing  more  joy  into  the  world.  How  could 
any  accuse  him  of  being  a  power  for  evil?  Yet  if  Minky 
ever  broke  down.  .  .  .  He  took  a  number  of  drinks  to 
banish  the  unpleasant  thought. 

II.    ON  FOETT- SEVENTH  STREET 

At  about  the  time  Mr.  Mink  was  having  his  first  portent  of 
bankruptcy  Arnold,  a  package  under  his  arm,  accompanied  by 
the  Phony  one — whom  he  had  uprooted  from  his  bed  at  that 


The  Happenings  of  a  Single  Day   263 

unseemly  hour  which  most  of  the  world  called  noon  and  Pink 
"midnight" — made  his  way  across  Broadway  toward  a  street 
in  the  upper  forties.  Since  taking  on  the  duties  of  dancer  at 
Sydenham's  Cafe  de  Paris  Cabaret,  Pink  and  Beau,  no  longer 
needing  a  place  where  they  could  at  any  moment  seek  safety  in 
seclusion,  had  removed  themselves  from  the  Yew  Tree  Inn, 
and  from  the  indignant  contempt  of  Mother  Mybus.  So  that 
when  Arnold  appeared  at  the  small  apartment  hotel  where 
they  were  in  residence  and  in  bed,  Pink  had  frowned  on  the 
idea  of  going  below  Fourteenth  Street  to  test  the  quality  of 
Captain  Danny's  sample,  having  no  mind  for  Mother's  cun- 
ning arguments  regarding  the  chances  for  wealth  he  had  de- 
liberately abandoned  in  turning  "square."  If  he  refused  to 
listen  the  vials  of  wrath  would  be  outpoured  upon  him  for  an 
ingrate,  an  upstart  puppy — this  from  Mother.  For  a  traitor, 
a  condemned  Judas — this  from  Nikko;  and  a  pestilential 
coward — this  from  Old  Mitt-and-a-Half.  .  .  .  These  re- 
proaches would  be  redoubled  because  he  had  also  led  Beau 
and  Sonetchka  astray,  according  to  the  Inn's  light,  robbing 
Nikko's  "rebellion"  of  two  sturdy  soldiers,  and  even  worse, 
decreasing  Mother's  revenues. 

At  first  the  Sydenham  employment  had  seemed  to  the  Inn 
but  a  subterfuge  that  would  for  the  moment  deceive  the  police, 
furnishing  as  it  did  evidence  of  lawful  occupation.  As  for 
Sonetchka  and  Beau — being  free  to  choose — the  Inn  had  not 
imagined  that  they  could  endure  for  long  the  dulness  of  hon- 
est pursuits — theirs  was  a  mere  divertisement. 

But  it  had  not  proved  so.  The  novelty  of  sleeping  of 
nights  without  fear  of  the  law,  of  awakening  of  mornings 
facing  no  necessity  of  taking  new  chances  which,  for  all  they 
knew  would  put  them  to  bed  in  a  cell — this  had  not  worn  off. 

"I  tell  you  a  guy's  got  a  nut  of  pure  ivory  when  he's  a 
grift,"  Pink  concluded,  explaining  this  to  Arnold;  "that  is, 
if  he  kin  grab  himself  shed  and  doughnut  sugar  by  a  regular 
job  that  don't  ask  a  man  to  be  a  nigger  slave.  .  .  .  'Cause 
grifting  ain't  what  it  used  to  be.  Fourteenth  Street's  got 


264  God's  Man 

protection  down  to  a  system — a  regular  underworld  tariff  on 
larceny.  What's  more,  it's  got  stools  and  coppers  keeping 
tab  on  you  and  knowing  how  much  you  snatch  to  the  last  jit. 
It's  getting  like  bringing  junk  from  Yurrup.  You'd  sooner 
give  it  up  than  pay  the  duty.  I  was  jest  a  little  sucker  to 
keep  on  the  gun  when  there  was  jobs  like  this  one  laying 
around  loose.  I'm  wise  to  the  layout  now.  Getting  dough 
is  like  playing  cards.  If  they  catch  you  cheating  they  not 
only  take  what  you've  won  away  but  kick  you  out  of  the  game 
besides.  The  thing  to  do  is  to  find  out  some  way  of  beating 
the  game.  Same  way  with  the  law.  It's  a  game.  You  bluff 
around  it  somehow  and  that's  'good  poker.'  Like  that  Walde- 
mar  you  work  for,  buying  up  all  the  pen-yen  and  not  selling 
it  unless  you've  got  a  doctor's  letter-head.  .  .  .  Catch  me 
working  for  coppers  and  politicians  any  more.  Which  is  sure 
what  you  do  when  you  grift.  You  take  the  chances  and  they 
git  the  dough.  Not  in  your  Uncle  Pink's.  .  .  .  That's 
why  I'm  passing  Mother  up.  This  place  I'm  taking  you  is 
where  I  smoke  nowadays — one  great  joint,  believe  me — and 
the  fellow  who  runs  it  has  a  brother  who's  got  about  a  thou- 
sand votes  in  his  pocket,  the  best  bunch  of  'colonists'  and  're- 
peaters' in  New  York.  So  he  ain't  troubled  none  by  nobody 
even  asking  for  their  'envelope'  Saturday  nights,  and  the 
captain  'ud  as  soon  think  of  pulling  a  church.  .  .  .  Here 
we  are." 

The  entrance  was  not  impressive.  It  was  one  of  a  row  of 
high  brownstone  fronts  in  one  of  those  neighborhoods  once 
occupied  by  small  merchants,  head  salesmen,  superintendents 
of  factories,  .  .  .  others  enjoying  a  comfortable  affluence. 
But  since  the  day  of  modern  apartment-houses  and  their  many 
inducements  these  abandoned  villages  have  become  the  lairs 
of  lodging-house  keepers,  and  interspersed  among  them  are 
places  even  more  decorous  in  appearance,  their  shades  never 
admitting  the  sunlight.  These  yield  a  rich  revenue  to  the 
collectors  of  "protection" — houses  of  chance  and  houses  of 
greater  chances  still ;  occasionally  among  them  such  a  one  as 


The  Happenings  of  a  Single  Day   265 

that  to  which  Arnold  was  now  admitted — once  the  Chinese 
attendant  had  peered  through  a  corner  of  one  of  the  glass 
panels  and  had  seen  him  in  company  with  Master  Pink. 

"By  the  bye/'  that  inquisitive  young  person  had  inquired 
while  they  awaited  the  answering  of  the  bell,  "you  say  you've 
picked  up  some  real  Li-un?  Gee!"  And  he  smacked  hia 
lips.  "I'll  soon  tell  you— though  if  you  did  you've  got 
Christopher  Columbus  lashed  to  the  mast.  There  won't  be 
enough  of  it  left  in  a  year  to  make  a  polo-cap  for  a  flea. 
.  .  .  How'd  you  gi — get  it?"  The  opening  of  the  door 
had  postponed  the  explanation,  and  Pink  now  led  Arnold  up 
the  soft-carpeted  stairs.  "There  ain't  many  places  like  this 
left,  go  bet  your  shirt  on  that,  boy,"  he  explained.  "Though 
the  town  used  to  be  full  of  them  twenty  years  back,  the  old- 
timers  tell  me.  Nowadays  it's  one  guy  in  a  one  hall-room  with 
one  layout,  one  customer  at  a  time.  Since  this  new  law  you 
can  gi-get — say,  kick  me  in  the  pants  every  time  I  start  pull- 
ing that  rough-neck  pronounciation,  will  you  ?  I'm  trying  to 
learn  to  talk  the  way  you  educated  ginks  do — there's  only 
small  potatoes  for  the  fellow  that  crooly  massacrees  the  Eng- 
lish langwitch  the  way  I  done.  Did,  I  mean.  .  .  .  Since 
this  new  law  you  can  get  a  two-years'  bit  at  the  least  jest  fa — 
just  for  selling  the  stuff.  And  if  they  catch  you  making  it, 
they  throw  the  book  at  you  and  tell  you  to  add  up  the  sen- 
tences. ...  So  the  only  people  who've  got  the  nerve  are 
those  that're  so  broke  most  of  the  time  they  haven't  got  a 
bean.  As  for  fitting  up  a  joint  like  this,  nobody  'ud  dare  do 
it  that  didn't  have  a  pull  as  long  as  an  East  Side  clothes- 
line. .  .  .  The  down-stairs  floor  is  a  kind  of  a  Chink  res- 
taurant— strictly  private  for  the  people  who  come  here.  You 
get  awful  hungry  after  smoking,  and  thirsty,  too.  The  sec- 
ond floor's  the  joint  and  the  private  rooms.  There're  some 
swell  people  come  here,  you  bet.  The  third  floor's  private 
rooms,  too,  and  the  fourth's  where  the  Chinks  sleep — he  won't 
have  anybody  but  Chinks,  thinks  they're  the  greatest  people 
on  earth — don't  know  a  thing  they  hadn't  ought  to  know  when 


266  God's  Man 

people  start  asking  questions.  He  don't  HT»  hart—got  a 
swell  flat  on  the  Drive,  they  tell  me,  and  his  wife  rides  around 
in  the  prettiest  little  runabout  you  ever  laid  eyes  on.  It's  all 
right,  Sam." 

Pink  had  knocked  on  a  door  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  the 
Chinese  who  had  admitted  them  to  the  house  having  vanished. 
Arnold  now  heard  a  faint  rattle  which,  had  he  been  better 
informed  on  such  matters,  he  would  have  known  for  the  clos- 
ing of  a  tiny  shutter,  their  presence  having  been  already  an- 
nounced. When  they  stepped  upon  the  last  stone  but  one 
they  rang  a  bell,  the  attachment  of  which  lay  under  the  car- 
peting; thus  they  were  viewed  before  they  knocked.  Such 
precautions  were  necessary,  even  to  one  with  extraordinary 
political  influence,  in  a  city  that  swarmed  with  societies  for 
the  prevention  of  this,  that  and  the  other,  whose  agents  were 
everywhere  in  search  of  evidence  and  whose  activities  and 
accusations  reaching  the  newspapers  necessitated  the  closing 
of  such  places  to  save  the  Police  Department's  "face,"  which 
meant  a  week  or  so  without  business. 

The  ante-room  to  which  another  Chinese  now  admitted 
them  was  fitted  up  plainly  like  a  physician's  or  dentist's, 
magazines  scattered  on  a  center-table.  At  an  open  escritoire 
in  a  corner  sat  the  proprietor  in  consultation  with  his  Boy 
Number  One,  checking  up  the  sales  of  the  previous  night, 
calculating  profits,  piles  of  silver  and  bills  before  them.  Boy 
Number  One,  a  neat  little  person  in  blue  serge,  black  tie,  low- 
cut  patent-leather  shoes,  immaculate  collar  and  cuffs,  was 
running  swift  fingers  over  the  strung  beads  of  his  counting- 
box,  the  ancient  abacus,  which  seemed  to  give  results  much 
quicker  than  the  proprietor's  double-entry  bookkeeping,  the 
Chinese  announcing  his  totals  first.  With  his  queue  deleted 
and  his  thick  blue-black  hair  parted  and  brushed  into  glossy 
smoothness,  he  seemed  in  that  dim  light  to  resemble  more 
nearly  a  Portuguese,  a  Sicilian  or  a  swarthy  Greek. 

The  Chinese  who  had  opened  the  door  and  who,  like  all  the 
other  minor  servants,  wore  the  long  blue  cotton  robe,  tight- 


The  Happenings  of  a  Single  Day   267 

ankled  breeches  and  felt  shoes  of  his  native  land,  signed  the 
visitors  to  wait,  and  the  proprietor  nodded  and  grunted  at 
Pink  but  went  on  with  his  work.  He  was  an  English  Jew, 
fair-haired,  fair-skinned,  with  no  Hebraic  features,  only  an 
Oriental  something  of  sensual  eyes  and  lips.  He  was  attired 
as  are  thousands  of  prosperous  members  of  that  vague  com- 
pany that  lies  between  lower  and  upper  middle  class,  which 
betrays  its  origin  by  wearing  the  sort  of  clothes  shown  in  shop- 
windows,  which  never  happens  until  the  upper  class  have 
ceased  to  wear  them.  Mr.  Clabber's  collar  and  tie  were  too 
stiffly  correct,  his  waistcoat  too  low  (it  would  have  been  too 
high  if  that  happened  to  be  current),  his  jewelry  too  florid — 
several  solitaire  diamonds  adorned  his  fingers,  a  huge  tri- 
angular one  his  tie, — while  he  wore  buttoned  patent-leather 
boots  with  attention-compelling  tops  of  light  lavender  kid. 
His  face  seemed  very  youthful  and  guiltless  for  one  in  such  a 
trade,  and  his  manner,  when  he  laid  down  his  pen  and  nodded 
to  his  head  servant,  was  one  of  frank  friendship. 

"Mr.  Clabber,  Mr.  L'Hommedieu,"  said  Pink,  his  phonetics 
of  Arnold's  surname  defying  any  printed  reproduction.  "Mr. 
L'Hommedieu's  got  some  of  the  real  stuff  under  his  arm  there. 
He  wants  to  give  it  a  try-out  and  I  told  him  your  boy,  Tom 
Lee,  could  give  him  the  real  dope  on  it.  Mind  if  he  lies  down 
with  us  a  while  ?"  And  as  Pink  was  a  steady  customer  and, 
moreover,  brought  others,  Mr.  Clabber  assented.  But  he 
scoffed  at  the  genuineness  of  the  article. 

"Weal  stuff — thay,  you  make  me  laff.  What  d'you  mean, 
you  lost  your  dawg!  I've  got  the  on'y  weal  stuff  peddled 
here  nowadays ;  bought  up  evwy  can  I  could  get  my  hands  on 
when  I  see  this  famine  coming.  You  got  bats  in  your  belfwy, 
Pink ;  you  got  wheels  in  you  head.  Hey,  Tom  ?"  Boy  Num- 
ber One  nodded  a  grinning  assent. 

"I  didn't  say  it  was  real,"  put  in  Arnold,  annoyed.  "I  only 
said  I  was  told  so.  If  it  is,  I've  got  the  chance  to  buy  all  I 
want  of  it  pretty  cheap — " 

"That's  enough  to  prove  it  ain't  Li-rm,"  interrupted  the 


268  'God's  Man 

lisping  proprietor.  "If  it  wath  weal  stuff  it  wouldn't  go 
cheap.  They  thell  it  for  fifty  dollarth  a  can — " 

"Would  you  give  fifty  ?"  asked  Arnold  quickly. 

The  lisping  man  was  visibly  disconcerted.  "I — I — got 
plenty/'  he  stammered.  "I — I  couldn't  make  no  profits  if  I 
paid  that  much.  Even  my  customerth  wouldn't  pay  it,  and 
I've  got  the  swellest  in  town.  Pink  can  tell  you.  .  .  . 
Some  of  them  might  pay  for  pure  stuff,  but  I'd  lose  half  my 
twade.  ...  I  tell  you  what,  though,"  he  added,  as  he 
thought  that  perhaps  the  stranger  might  have  fallen  upon 
such  treasure  after  all,  "I  pay  as  much  as  anybody  elseth  give 
you  and  I  take  all  you  got — if  it'sth  Li-un.  But  it  ain't! 
Hey,  Tom?"  Boy  Number  One  again  gave  grinning  assent, 
this  time  from  within  the  folding-doors  that  shut  off  the  ante- 
room from  the  divan.  He  had  removed  his  coat  and  waist- 
coat and  was  lying  on  one  of  the  bunks  built  close  to  the 
wall;  there  was  a  number  of  these  in  two  tiers  not  unlike 
Pullman  berths,  but  wide  enough  to  accommodate  two  people 
lying  full  length  with  a  space  that  would  have  served  a  third 
between  them,  this  for  the  filigreed  tray  which  held  the  various 
articles  necessary  for  preparing  the  opium. 

It  was  both  too  early  and  too  late  for  customers,  the  last  of 
the  night's  crew  always  leaving  before  noon,  the  afternoon 
rush  seldom  beginning  until  close  upon  tea-time.  So  that  the 
place  was  empty ;  even  most  of  the  Chinese  "cooks"  were  still 
asleep  in  the  attic.  This  main  room  had  swallowed  up  a 
former  drawing-room  and  library,  and  had  evidently  been 
furnished  by  an  Oriental  in  imitation  of  similar  places  in 
China,  Japan  and  India.  No  heavy  draperies  or  curtains  of 
cloth  caught  the  smell  and  held  it,  no  carpets,  no  rugs;  on 
the  floor  a  clean  rice-matting,  to  the  bunks  hangings  of  some 
woodenish,  fibrous  stuff  painted  in  gay  colors ;  while  the  head- 
rests were  piles  of  round  mats;  the  folded  bunk  covers  alone 
were  of  woven  stuff,  something  like  Turkish  toweling. 

The  room  was  lit  dimly  by  strings  of  Chinese  lanterns,  in 
which  low-powered  electric  arcs  were  concealed ;  very  gay  Ian.- 


The  Happenings  of  a  Single  Day   269 

terns  shaped  like  the  lily  and  the  lotus,  the  dragon  and  the 
hawk,  especial  importations  of  Boy  Number  One.  On  the 
walls  were  tacked  many  long  strips  of  red  paper  covered  with 
Chinese  idiographs.  Tabourets  of  teak  and  tall  kakalmono 
jars  for  spent  cigarettes  were  scattered  about.  There  was  no 
other  furniture.  Hence,  the  room  gave  that  sense  of  cleanli- 
ness and  spaciousness  usual  to  Chinese  houses.  Without  ex- 
pense an  effect  was  achieved  that  no  amount  of  money  could 
have  increased;  one  suddenly  felt  and  smelt  the  East,  and 
New  York  seemed  very  far  away. 

"Lie  down,"  Pink  directed  Arnold.  He  had  removed  coat 
and  collar,  resting  his  head  on  the  pile  of  mats.  "Come  on. 
I  want  to  enjoy  this  if  it's  Li-un ;  I  don't  want  to  have  to  turn 
my  head  around  to  you  every  minute.  It  kills  the  effect, 
moving  all  the  time.  Come  on.  Take  your  collar  off,  too, 
and  put  your  head  right  above  my  hip  and  sorta  curl  up  your 
yams.  That's  the  trick — "  and  Arnold  lay  watching  the  deft 
swift  fingers  of  Boy  Number  One  as  he  dipped  into  one  of 
Captain  Danny's  cans  with  a  long,  thin  cooking  needle,  stir- 
ring and  kneading  and  drawing  up  the  golden  stuff  that  was 
like  sirup  both  in  appearance  and  odor. 

It  was  not  evident  whether  Boy  Number  One  was  pleased 
or  disappointed ;  his  placid  yellow  face  gave  no  hint ;  but  both 
Pink  and  Clabber,  who  sat  on  a  tabouret  near  by,  watched 


"Bubbles  like  Li-un,"  Pink  asserted. 

"They  all  bubble,"  returned  Clabber  shortly,  but,  as  the 
Chinese  took  some  on  the  point  of  the  yen-hok  and  began  to 
toast  it  over  the  filigreed  lamp,  Clabber  sniffed  as  appreci- 
atively as  did  Pink. 

"Belony  all  some  good  Li-un  smell,"  asserted  Boy  Number 
One,  despite  his  master's  frown,  which  he  did  not  look  up  to 
see.  The  cooking  continued.  The  first  draw  at  the  pipe 
was  taken  by  the  cook,  who  inhaled  and  exhaled  it  with  satis- 
faction. "Him  all  light,"  he  asserted  as  he  blew  out  the  final 
lacy  cloud.  "Li-un  all  light."  Now  he  looked  up  and  for 


270  God's  Man 

the  first  time  saw  Clabber's  portentous  frown.  "Well — 
mebbe — "  he  began,  but  Pink,  suspicious,  turned  swiftly  and 
he,  too,  saw  the  frown. 

"Oh,  forget  it,  Midge,"  he  growled.  "Don't  pull  any 
of  that  stuff  to  try  and  git  it  cheaper.  Tom  said  it  was 
the  goods  the  first  time,  and  you  can't  get  away  with  it. 
Tom  knows  too  much  about  the  scammish  to  make  any 
mistakes."  He  took  the  pipe  and  smoked.  "Well,  I  should 
say,"  he  continued.  "Like  candy,  it  is.  Gee!  What  a 
difference.  And  you  call  that  stuff  of  yours  Li-un,  Midge. 
A  pound  of  Li-un  to  a  pound  of  seconds,  you  mean.  You 
might  save  the  good  stuff  for  the  private  rooms,  but  you  don't 
give  us  any  like  this  down  here."  He  silenced  the  diminu- 
tive Jew  with  a:  "Well,  bring  out  some  of  your  stuff  and 
let  me  smoke  it  pill  for  pill  with  this.  I'll  gamble  you  don't 
dare." 

Mr.  Clabber  fell  into  whining.  "Well,  what  you  expect, 
Pink?"  he  asked,  spreading  his  palms.  "You  wouldn't  pay 
Li-un  pricesth.  And  if  I  give  you  lessth  you  don't  come  no 
more.  .  .  .  But  don't  you  say  nothink  to  your  friends, 
Pink,  and  I  give  you  Li-un  for  yourself.  You  hear,  Tom  ?" 
Tom  grinned.  "And  you  sure  this  is  Li-un,  Tom?"  Tom 
grinned  again  rather  uneasily. 

"Go  on,  tell  him,"  urged  Pink,  and  Clabber  nodded. 

"Him  Li-un  all  light,"  said  Tom.  "All  same  Shanghai. 
Plenty  good,  master.  You  buy." 

"I  give  you  thirty  a  can  for  hundred  cans,"  said  Clabber 
quickly.  "Cash  down  on  the  nail." 

"Why,  you  little  burglar,"  protested  Pink,  "didn't  you  just 
say  it  was  worth  fifty  ?" 

"I  saidth"  emphasized  Clabber,  "that  they  thell  it  for 
fifty — retail.  And  look  at  the  money  tied  up — look  at  the 
wisks — look  at — ewything,"  he  finished  with  a  flourish. 
"Three  thousand,  Mister,  and  a  good  bargainth  for  you,  too. 
Cash  on  delivery.  Cash." 


The  Happenings  of  a  Single  Day   271 

"Thirty-five  and  done,"  said  Arnold.  "No  haggling — 
thirty-five  does  it.  I  could  say  forty-five  and  come  down  to 
that,  but  I  don't  work  that  way — thirty-five ;  take  or  leave  it." 
His  heart  was  thumping  madly.  Here  was  a  vast  increase  on 
what  he  had  expected ;  he  would  more  than  double  his  money. 

But  the  lisping  proprietor  said  he  could  not  believe  that 
any  one  would  have  the  temerity  to  ask  forty-five  hundred; 
that  was  absurd.  Even  four  thousand ;  as  for  thirty-five  hun- 
dred, Arnold  might  get  it  in  some  places,  but  he  could  not 
afford  it,  so  he  could  do  just  what  he  pleased.  But  Pink 
moved  his  knee  gently  and  Arnold  only  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. Yet  still  Mr.  Clabber  talked  on  of  interest  forfeited,  of 
the  likelihood  of  Federal  government  intervention  and  prob- 
able confiscation  of  his  stock.  .  .  1  Why,  even  if  they 
changed  captains  in  this  district  it  was  ruin  for  him.  Al- 
most, he  shed  tears  upon  his  unfeeling  listener. 

"We  won't  haggle,  like  you  saidth,"  he  concluded;  "split 
the  differenceth — thirty-two-fifty  and  not  a  centh  more." 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Clabber,"  rejoined  Arnold.  "I'm  not  ask- 
ing you  to  take  it.  There  are  too  many  want  this  sort  of 
stuff.  .  .  ."  And  Clabber  capitulated. 

"When'll  you  bring  it  ?"  he  asked.  Arnold  thought,  prob- 
ably, to-morrow.  "Telephone  me  first,"  said  the  lisping  man, 
"and  I'll  go  to  the  bank.  But  I've  got  the  wight  to  pick  out 
half  a  dozenth  cans  and  open  them  before  I  pay!"  Arnold 
nodded  and  Clabber  retired  to  his  ante-room  jubilant.  At 
the  prices  he  charged  for  small  amounts  he  stood  to  gain 
much  by  the  transaction ;  and  so  Pink  told  Arnold. 

"But  so  would  anybody  else  who  had  the  dough  to  take  a 
hundred  cans  off  your  hands."  He  eyed  the  Chinese  un- 
easily, then  fished  up  a  thick  gold-plated  pencil  by  a  trousers 
pocket  chain,  discovered  an  old  letter  in  a  hip-pocket  and 
wrote  a  question  as  to  how  Arnold  had  secured  so  large  an 
amount  of  stuff,  and  couldn't  he  get  in  on  it?  Which  Arnold 
promised  to  explain  when  they  were  alone. 


272  God's  Man 

"Here,  hire,  Tom  Lee,"  said  Pink,  scowling  as  that  amiable 
Oriental  took  advantage  of  his  position  as  chef  to  accommo- 
date himself  with  another  long  draw. 

"Don't  catcham  ploper  Li-un  many  time/'  explained  Tom. 
"All  same  Shanghai  when  I  smokum.  Velly  much  'bliged," 
and  he  nodded  suave  thanks  to  Arnold,  helping  himself  to 
more  of  his  property.  "All  same  Shanghai,"  he  said  again, 
sighing.  "How  much  you  sellum  one  can  to  poor  China  boy, 
hey,  master  ?" 

"Why,"  said  Arnold,  "you  and  my  friend  can  have  this  can 
between  you — three-quarters  to  him."  He  had  been  moved 
to  this  generosity  by  the  look  of  wistful  desire  on  Boy  dumber 
One's  face.  He  realized  that  with  such  the  matter  of  smoking 
was  less  of  a  luxury  than  a  necessity,  and  that  such  stuff  as 
this  once  tasted,  it  was  like  asking  a  man  to  return  to  a  diet 
of  boiled  bones  after  an  existence  on  excellent  marrows.  As 
for  Pink,  he  was  too  much  elated  by  this  unexpected  gift  to 
quarrel  with  sharing  it,  and  a  look  of  doglike  respect  came 
into  Boy  Number  One's  eyes. 

"Mebbe  you  like  tly  youself ,  master  ?"  he  asked.  "I  cookum 
velly  fine,  you  see;  velly  small,  too."  He  held  out  the  pipe 
to  Arnold  enticingly. 

"Go  on,  Sir  Eeginal  Yere  de  Voo,"  Pink  urged.  "You 
oughta  try  it  once,  anyhow,  if  you're  going  to  peddle  it. 
How5!!  you  ever  know  the  goods  from  the  bunk  ?  Just  get  a 
taste  of  that  and  nobody  'ull  ever  be  able  to  pass  the  phony 
article  on  you.  You  can't  tell  jest — just  from  the  smell. 
Go  on."  And,  as  the  pipe  was  prodding  him  in  the  chest, 
Arnold  took  it. 

When  one  desires,  or  is  curious,  any  excuse  will  serve,  and 
Pink's  seemed  well  put.  Captain  Danny  might  have  a  con- 
signment of  bad  stuff  with  only  a  few  picked  cans  for  sam- 
ples. He  must  test  it  to-morrow  himself. 

"You're  sure — it — it  won't — "  he  began,  and  Tom  Lee's 
grin  returned. 

"Won't  give  you  a  horrible  habit  if  you  smoke  it  once?" 


The  Happenings  of  a  Single  Day   273 

jeered  Pink.  "Why,  sure !  You'll  wake  up  to-morrow  clutch- 
ing the  sheets  and  shrieking  for  the  deadly  drug,  and  if  some 
kind  friends  don't  bring  it  to  you  in  ten  minutes  you'll  just 
die  for  want  of  it — and  you'll  see  green  elephants  and  purple 
rats — I  see  'em  now.  .  .  .  And  you'll  hear  the  little  gold- 
fish singing  Home,  Sweet  Home.  .  .  .  Sure !  it's  terrible 
stuff."  But  Arnold  had  already  permitted  the  Chinese  boy  to 
steer  the  bowl  over  the  flame  and  now  drew  on  the  mouth- 
piece as  he  had  seen  Pink  do. 

He  lay  back,  surprised  despite  Pink's  jeers,  that  he  felt 
nothing.  NOT  had  there  been  any  effort  or  strangling  in  in- 
haling the  smoke;  thick,  it  was  mild,  far  milder  than  the 
cigarette  that  he  hastily  lit  to  banish  the  taste,  which,  though 
not  nauseous,  yet  in  its  sweetish  way  was  reminiscent  of  medi- 
cine. .  .  .  And  then  silence  fell,  while  the  Chinese  boy 
passed  the  long  bamboo  stem  from  one  to  the  other.  Arnold 
handled  it  more  than  a  dozen  times  before  it  achieved  any 
result. 

Then  he  felt  constrained  to  talk.  To  his  surprise  he  had 
some  difficulty  in  keeping  back  the  tale  of  Captain  Danny 
and  his  Yucatan  treasure-trove.  A  burning  conviction  that 
these  two  men  were  his  best  friends  and  that  he  was  justified 
in  telling  them  anything  overpowered  him.  And  he  told  them 
of  almost  everything  else.  Of  his  bitter  dislike  of  New 
York,  his  retirement  to  his  birthplace,  his  determination  to 
devote  the  remainder  of  his  life  to  the  writing  of  books  that 
would  benefit  the  world.  Never  had  he  loved  his  fellow  men 
so  dearly;  never  had  he  throbbed  so  indignantly  to  their 
wrongs.  A  great  desire  to  be  known  for  a  philanthropist  was 
upon  him.  How  could  he  help  this  deserving  Chinese,  for 
instance  ?  In  his  mind  he  reached  the  heights  of  self-abnega- 
tion and  understood  the  lonely  philosopher  of  No-Man's  Land 
who  talked  of  wealth  and  fame  so  contemptuously.  Arnold 
spoke  to  his  companions  of  this  man  as  one  speaks  of  a  na- 
tional hero. 

And  still  the  rush  of  ideas  came  so  rapidly  his  speech  could 


274  God's  Man 

not  keep  pace  with  them.  He  lay  back  and  closed  his  eyes. 
The  tenor  of  his  thought  changed  from  sentimental  to  prac- 
tical. He  forgot  he  was  in  New  York  for  only  a  day.  He 
saw  the  possibilities  of  Captain  Danny's  treasure-trove.  They 
were  unlimited.  The  next  time  Danny  sailed  he,  Arnold, 
would  entrust  him  with  some  of  the  profits  of  this  deal,  which 
would  mean  many  more  thousands  when  more  stuff  was 
brought  back  and  sold.  And — so  on — voyage  after  voyage — 
until  he  became  rich.  .  .  . 

And  then  he  remembered  his  dreams,  the  ship  standing  off 
Havre  de  Grace  Harbor,  and  in  a  flash  came  a  gay  and  gor- 
geous venture — not  a  shoddy  bit  of  personal  smuggling,  with 
minor  profits  each  voyage,  but  one  memorable  voyage  that 
would  win  everything.  He  would  give  up  the  entire  present 
profits  and  borrow  more  from  Hugo  and  from  Archie.  Hugo 
had  plenty  and  would  be  glad  to  lend  for  the  sake  of  the  debt 
he  owed  him;  Archie  was  always  speculating  and  would  be 
eager  for  a  fifty-per-cent.  profit.  Let  in  a  few  others,  Enoch 
Apricott  and  this  Clabber,  who  knew  how  and  where  to  sell  it, 
retail.  That,  then,  was  the  significance  of  his  dream.  The 
ship  should  stand  off  Havre  de  Grace  Harbor  some  night  and 
he  and  his  partners  should  tranship  the  cargo  to  a  smaller 
boat  and  carry  it  ashore;  the  Cormorant  could  then  pro- 
ceed on  its  journey  next  morning  into  New  York  Harbor. 

As  for  chances  of  detection,  it  could  be  done  at  night. 
Captain  Danny  himself  should  promise  each  one  of  his  men 
a  bonus  for  keeping  his  mouth  shut.  Anyway,  they  would 
never  know  who  received  the  stuff,  so  even  if  they  talked  they 
could  prove  nothing  against  anybody  but  Captain  Danny, 
who  would  be  well  enough  paid  as  a  partner  to  run  the  risk. 
As  for  revenue-cutters!  Arnold  knew  the  habits  of  those 
coast-guard  folk.  They  cruised  off  that  part  of  the  Island 
for  a  few  hours  once  a  week,  and  usually  on  schedule  time; 
and  there  was  no  Port  Officer  at  Havre  de  Grace  any  more. 
Besides  the  town  was  almost  hidden  by  the  high  hills  that  pro- 
tected the  Harbor — and  between  Green  Sands  and  Havre  de 


The  Happenings  of  a  Single  Day   275 

Grace  was  that  No-Man's  Land  where  only  the  unknown 
philosopher  dwelt — all  others  were  miles  from  the  shore — 
there  were  only  ducks  and  wild  geese  and  sea-gulls  and  por- 
poises to  look  on ;  and  the  keepers  of  the  two  lights,  five  miles 
apart,  always  slept  from  dinner  until  dawn  save  when  they 
must  attend  to  the  fog-bells.  And  if  it  was  foggy  they  could 
see  nothing  anyhow.  ...  As  for  passing  ships,  after  the 
Connecticut  night-mail  none  passed  within  miles  of  the 
Island;  those  bound  for  Boston  or  New  York  keeping  to  the 
Connecticut  shore,  twenty  miles  away.  ...  In  fact  an 
objection  had  only  to  be  propounded  to  be  answered  instantly 
and  favorably.  He  wondered  that  more  smuggling  was  not 
done.  Perhaps  it  was;  naturally,  he  would  not  know;  smug- 
glers did  not  advertise  their  successes. 

Now  he  saw  why  it  was  that  those  tales  were  told  of  opium 
giving  dreams  of  wealth.  It  sharpened  the  brain,  as  De 
Noailles  had  said ;  showed  men  chances  they  were  too  indolent 
and  ambitionless  to  grasp.  .  .  .  He  could  understand 
that  indolent  part  of  it,  too.  As  he  lay  there,  his  eyes  closed, 
it  was  as  if  the  whole  world  came  to  him,  its  picked  inhab- 
itants performing  for  his  benefit.  He  saw  things  clearly,  yet 
not  cynically ;  felt  rather  as  a  father  to  naughty  children. 

With  these  thoughts  his  benevolence  returned,  granting  ex- 
cuses for  broken  laws  and  such.  With  wealth  what  a  power 
of  good  he  could  be;  independent  of  timid  publishers  who 
feared  not  to  make  profit  on  his  burning  books ;  of  "practical" 
politicians  who  would  not  help  him  in  his  work  of  reforma- 
tion, fearing  loss  of  perquisites — his  money  could  beat  their 
campaign  funds.  .  .  .  Yet,  withal,  he  seemed  to  dream 
practically ;  it  was  as  if  two  souls  were  within  him,  one  bring- 
ing forward  all  possible  objections.  What  the  Musketeers 
had  planned  in  college  should  yet  take  place — they  would  be 
without  their  Aramis,  true;  Carol  Caton  held  Archie  too 
firmly — but  he  could  coax  Hugo  down  to  help  him,  he  felt 
sure. 

And  so  his  thoughts  raced  on  until,  exhausted,  Arnold 


276  God's  Man 

dozed,  while  Tom  Lee  continued  steadily  to  feed  the  insatiable 
Pink. 

III.  WHAT  ARNOLD  HEABD  IN  His  ALCOVE 

His  reflections,  added  to  his  slumber,  had  consumed  most 
of  the  afternoon;  the  patrons  of  Mr.  Clabber  had  long  since 
begun  to  gather,  as  more  normal  folk  (though  Clabber's  peo- 
ple would  have  claimed  the  opposite)  were  beginning  to  gather 
for  tea.  Nor  must  it  be  imagined  that  Mr.  Clabber's  people 
in  any  radical  wise  lacked  resemblance  to  the  tea-drinkers.  It 
was  the  profession  of  a  majority  of  these  Clabberites  to  make 
their  presences  personable.  Chiefly  the  difference  between 
them  and  the  tea-drinkers  was  in  the  matter  of  ostentation; 
each  emphasized  different  details.  There  was  a  greater  dis- 
play of  jewelry  here  where  the  other  sort  kept  jewelry  for  spe- 
cial occasions.  Here  with  the  men  was  too  much  insistence 
upon  silken  haberdashery,  watch-fobs,  solitaires. 

But  all  were  quiet  vocally  if  not  sartorially.  Clabber  ad- 
mitted no  others  twice.  Besides,  his  prices,  including  an 
assurance  of  safety  and  the  amount  of  exclusiveness  one  was 
willing  to  pay  for,  were  too  high  for  any  who  were  not  of 
Subterranea's  aristocracy.  As  for  the  others,  theatrical  folk 
and  such,  this  being  what  the  tea-drinkers  would  have  called 
the  "smartest"  of  its  sort,  was  the  Mecca  of  many  with  names 
long  and  favorably  known  to  the  public,  some  of  whom,  com- 
ing late  and  unable  to  secure  private  rooms,  were  so  imbued 
with  the  unconscious  freemasonry  their  habit  entailed  that 
they  took  places  in  the  common  room.  Peeping  through  the 
gaps  in  his  fiber-curtains,  Arnold  saw  a  woman  take  her  place 
in  a  bunk  opposite  him,  a  woman  whose  name  blazed  every 
night  in  electric  letters;  her  escort,  through  frequently  pub- 
lished photographs,  was  almost  as  widely  known.  Upon  these 
Boy  Number  One,  who  had  long  left  Arnold  and  Pink,  was 
dancing  an  eager  and  apologetic  attendance. 

"You  see  ?  .  .  ."  whispered  Pink  in  a  strained  but  tri- 
umphal whisper.  .  .  . 


The  Happenings  of  a  Single  Day   277 

Almost  before  the  famous  pair  had  drawn  their  curtains  a 
slender  girl  in  an  ultra-fashionable  costume  appeared ;  follow- 
ing her  a  youth,  in  clothes  he  fondly  imagined  to  be  of  aristo- 
cratic English  lineage,  was  roundly  denouncing  Clabber,  who 
stood  apologetically  near  by,  for  a  lack  of  more  extended 
accommodations. 

"Every  time  I  come  here  and  tell  people  they  can  get  abso- 
lute privacy  you're  on  hand  with  a  stall.  What've  you  got 
in  those  private  rooms  ?  Bank-presidents  ?  Bank  burglars 
more  likely.  Never  again  do  I  patronize  this  joint  if  I  got 
to  take  a  stall,  hear  me  ?  Swell  when  steady  customers  like 
me  have  to  .  .  ." 

"Look  who's  here/'  came  from  behind  a  pair  of  curtains, 
and  the  girl  instinctively  reached  up  to  cover  a  face  already 
heavily  veiled.  "Why  didn't  you  tip  us  His  Nobs  was  coming, 
Clabber,  and  we'd  all  be  standing  in  a  row  singing  God  Save 
the  Queen.  Oh,  mercy!" 

"Eich,  ain't  it,  boy  ?"  Pink  whispered  to  Arnold.  "What's 
good  enough  for  a  couple  of  Broadway  princes  don't  suit  that 
Little  Joker  that  'ud  need  assistance  to  roll  a  peanut.  .  .  . 
I  knew  him  when  he  couldn't  get  the  ham  and  eggs  out  of 
hock,  the  shrimp !  .  .  ." 

The  shrimp  was  now  disclaiming  bitterly  any  intention  of 
compelling  any  "lady  friend  he  brought  there"  to  mount  any 
ladder  to  any  upper  bunk — the  only  vacant  one  being  that  just 
above  Arnold's.  But  here  the  cause  of  the  shrimp's  solicitude 
proved  more  tractable  than  he  and  surmounted  the  elevation 
by  way  of  a  pair  of  sliding  steps  that  a  Chinese  servant  had 
brought. 

"Burglars  are  polished  gentlemen  compared  to  a  heel  like 
that,"  murmured  Pink.  "Know  what  he  is,  don't  you  ?  He's 
got  all  the  earmarks — little  head  and  little  hat,  a  coffee-cup 
?ud  make  a  sunbonnet  for  him.  Ssh !  Listen !"  But  there 
was  no  sound  from  the  bunk  above.  The  lamp  once  alight, 
the  youth,  having  discarded  the  upper  portion  of  his  near- 
English  attire,  was  too  occupied  in  putting  an  end  to  the  ter- 


278  God's  Man 

rific  yawns  that  were  racking  him,  the  protests  of  a  body  de- 
prived too  long  of  its  daily  drug. 

"Be  still,  can't  you?"  they  heard  him  snarl  between  two 
gigantic  gapes. 

"You'll  hear  something  rich  if  you  go  on  listening,"  Pink 
murmured  into  Arnold's  ear.  "Wait  till  Petty  Boy  starts 
bullying  that  skirt.  Why  do  these  frails  fall  for  such  a  louse  ? 
He  gets  the  finest,  too.  Women  with  swell  clothes  and  apart- 
ments and  automobiles — half-a-dozen  on  the  string  all  the 
time.  And,  all  together,  they  don't  ever  seem  to  let  him 
have  enough  to  blow  to  a  round  of  drinks  or  a  card  of  stuff. 
He  wouldn't  give  the  Lord  a  prayer." 

Ordinarily  disgust  would  have  clouded  Arnold's  eyes;  as 
it  was  he  was  only  amused;  it  seemed  but  a  corollary  of  the 
universal  militancy  that  such  men  as  Petty  Boy  should  exist. 
The  women  on  whom  they  preyed  in  turn  preyed  on  rich  men, 
who  preyed  upon  poor  men,  who  begot  sons  who  preyed  on  the 
women  again.  And  if  he  was  to  be  shocked  at  Petty  Boy  he 
must  be  shocked  by  the  whole  system,  and  he  had  not  the  time. 
"Fleas  have  smaller  fleas  to  bite  'em,  and  so  proceed  ad  in- 
finitum,"  he  quoted  more  or  less  correctly. 

"Well?"  they  heard  the  girl  above  say. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  was  the  sulky  reply.  "I've  told  you  a 
dozen  things  to  do,  but  you  won't  do  ?em." 

"I  tell  you,  Artie,  he  hasn't  got  the  money,"  fretfully.  In- 
stinctively Arnold  bristled — the  voice  was  familiar. 

"He'll  do  everything  he  can,  but  he's  already  doing  that," 
she  continued  in  the  same  petulant  tone.  "And  now  this 
beastly,  rotten  old  show's  taken  every  last  penny  his  father 
will  give.  .  .  ." 

"There  you  go,"  cut  in  the  man,  "cheap  chippy  vanity. 
Whoever  told  you  you  could  act?  Just  slipped  a  cool  ten 
thousand  to  some  canny  kikes.  Easy  money.  You  ought  to 
have  your  head  examined  and  get  that  nest  of  titmice  taken 
out  of  it.  .  .  .  His  father's  got  plenty  of  sugar,  though, 


The  Happenings  of  a  Single  Day   279 

hey?"  There  followed  some  exasperated  reply,  the  truth  of 
which  the  man  hastened  to  admit.  "That's  all  right.  He's 
the  heir,  ain't  he?  He  can  raise  all  kinds  of  dough  on  his 
prospects.  Some  of  these  Jews  down-town  make  a  business 
of  that.  Fifty  and  a  hundred  per  cent,  stuff.  But  what  does 
he  care  if  he'll  get  millions'!  .  .  .  You  do  what  I  say. 
Tell  him  either  he's  got  to  marry  you  or  settle  something  on 
you  so's  the  best  years  of  your  life  won't  be  wasted  like  a  lot 
of  your  friends'  were — all  that  kind  of  rag-time.  It  always 
goes  with  suckers.  If  he  don't  do  one  or  the  other  you'll  walk 
out  of  his  door  never  to  return.  That  'walk  out  the  door 
never  to  return'  is  a  sure-fire.  Wonder  if  they  think  you'd 
walk  out  the  window  or  down  the  dumbwaiter  if  you  didn't 
put  that  'door'  in?  .  .  ." 

"Dear  old  boy,"  the  girl  began,  and  at  the  affected  manner- 
ism Arnold  started,  suspicions  confirmed. 

"Chop  the  dear  old  Piccadilly  stuff,"  growled  the  man. 
"You're  among  friends  where  you  can  tell  your  right  name. 
You  have  to  do  enough  of  that  stalling  when  you're  outa  your 
class — don't  pull  it  here."  Again  an  indistinguishable  reply. 
Then,  "Don't  answer  me  back  like  that,  you  little  tramp,  or 
you'll  be  wearing  a  heavy  veil  for  a  week  after  I  get  through 
with  you.  Don't  get  me  mixed  up  with  those  Fifth  Avenue 
saps.  And  don't  start  cracking  you'd  like  to  see  the  man 
who'd  lift  a  hand  to  you,  'cause  if  you  do  you'll  get  your  wish 
all  right.  .  .  ." 

A  long  silence  followed,  broken  only  by  occasional  sobs, 
then: 

"Artie,  how  can  you  be  so  brutal  when  you  know  how  much 
I  love  you — "  A  growl.  "I'll  do  whatever  you  say." 

"That's  right,  then."  He  seemed  suddenly  to  regain  his 
good  humor. 

"Let's  go,"  whispered  Arnold.  "I've  had  enough  of  this." 
Now,  indeed,  was  he  sick  at  heart.  Boy  Number  One,  whose 
lynx-like  ears  caught  the  sound  of  their  going,  hurried  after 


280  God's  Man 

them,  promising  to  keep  intact  Pink's  share  of  Arnold's  gift 
after  weighing  out  his  own.  "How  much  we  owe  you, 
Midge?"  asked  Pink. 

"Well,"  lisped  the  little  man,  "I'm  not  sure  I  oughtn't 
,chargeth  you  as  much  as  if  you  thmoked  my  stuff;  you  took 
up  valuableth  room.  But — half-priceth  then,"  he  hastened 
to  add,  noting  a  stormy  look.  As  Arnold  opened  the  door  he 
reminded  him  he  was  to  telephone  before  he  came  next  day 
to  deliver  his  merchandise — that  the  cash  might  be  ready. 
Arnold  nodded.  It  was  the  old  Arnold  again;  self-interest 
swallowed  by  unselfish  concern  when  affairs  were  not  as  they 
should  be  with  one  closely  allied.  For  a  long  cross-town 
block  his  teeth  were  set,  his  hat  pulled  savagely  over  scowling 
brows. 

"What's  on  your  mind?"  demanded  Pink,  as  they  reached 
Broadway.  "You  look  as  happy  as  a  cripple  at  the  cross. 
Old  Colonel  R  E.  Morse  sittin'  on  the  shoulder?  Was  it  a 
wicked  little  rascal  to  dally  with  the  Oriental  Pleasure?  Or 
is  the  Common  Enemy — the  law — on  your  trail  ?" 

Arnold  settled  his  hat  at  a  more  usual  angle,  but  the  scowl 
remained  unaltered.  "What  would  you  do  if  the  fellow  those 
two  were  talking  about  happened  to  be  your  friend?"  he 
asked  suddenly,  at  which  Master  Pink  whistled  shrilly. 

"A  pal,"  he  asked.  "He  is.  Well — "  and  considered.  "Badly 
stuck?"  he  asked  again. 

"Thinks  the  sun  rises  and  sets  in  her,"  said  Arnold  with  an 
oath. 

"Then  don't  you  mix  in,"  advised  Pink  solemnly.  "I  re- 
member when  I  was  doubled  up  with  Helen  Darling,  she  tells 
me  the  Harmony  Kid's  gal — girl  (I  beat  you  to  it) — was 
running  around  under  cover  with  Pewee  Pratt.  Har- 
mony's girl  musta  fell  for  his  looks,  jes — just  like  this 
skirt — for  he  hadn't  anything  else.  But  when  I  hears 
it  I  run  bellering  to  Harmony  and  he  mitts  me  and  says; 
he  thanks  Gawd  he's  got  one  pal.  Then  he  takes  a  shieve 
out  of  a  drawer  and  says  he's  going  to  furnish  s.ome  hospital 


The  Happenings  of  a  Single  Day   281 

with  a  lot  of  nice  liuming  organs — heart  and  liver  and  every- 
thing. Well,  I  grapples  with  him  and  grabs  the  shieve  away 
and  cut  a  gash  in  my  pants  that  cost  me  the  price  of  a  new 
set  of  scenery.  And  I  stick  around  with  him  all  that  night, 
gettin'  him  so  soused  that  when  he  wakes  up  next  day  his 
head  'ull  hurt  too  much  for  to  go  carving  up  anybody.  Stood 
me  back  a  sawbuck  doing  it,  for  that  Kid's  only  started  after 
he's  drunk  up  the  Hudson  and  took  the  East  Eiver  for  a 
chaser.  .  .  .  Counting  the  new  clothes,  I'm  out  a  couple 
weeks'  profit.  .  .  .  Well,  when  he  gets  over  his  headache 
the  girl  sees  him  and  explains  everything,  and  the  next  time 
he  sees  me  he  looks  up  to  see  what  kind  of  weather  we're  going 
to  have.  And  now  he  tells  everybody  I  got  him  loaded  and 
lifted  his  souper — he  lost  his  watch  somewhere  that  night. 
Me — cross  a  friend!  Gee!  You  keep  out  of  any  sich  mix- 
ups,  Lord  Montmorency  de  Villyers.  Take  a  tip  from  a  gink 
who  has  played  'em  through." 

"It's  a  pretty  selfish  tip,"  returned  Arnold  sourly. 

"Trouble  with  you,"  commented  Pink,  "you  keep  thinking 
how  things  ought  to  be  instead  of  how  they  are.  This  friend  of 
yours  is  probably  a  damn  sight  happier  with  this  frail  than 
either  of  us  could  be  with  a  dame  'cause  we  know  too  much.  .  .  . 
Say,  I  was  standing  shivering  on  a  street  corner  last  winter, 
me  and  Beau,  not  a  bean  to  get  the  ham-an'-eggs  outa  hock, 
not  even  to  grab  a  short  and  trolley  ourselves  down  to  Moth- 
er's. Ten  above  zero,  too.  And  along  comes  a  guy  in  a 
regular  bang-up  sleigh,  the  nicest  kind  of  a  sable  collar  to  his 
coat,  and  a  piece  of  ice  in  his  tie  that  made  Tiffany's  front 
window  look  like  a  hardware  exhibit.  But  Beau  and  me  had 
beat  him  out  of  half-a-century  at  the  'match'  one  night  when 
he  was  drunk,  a  month  before.  So  that  little  sap  Beau  says : 
'Look  at  that  little  sucker!  Sucker!  Poor  sucker! — nice 
and  warm  and  rich  and  riding,  and  us  wise  guys — nice  and 
cold  and  poor  and  walking.  .  .  .'  Don't  be  so  sorry  for 
those  'suckers.'  Gi'  me  that  lad's  money  and  any  skirt  that 
can  get  away  with  it  can  trim  me  out  of  it ;  if  they  don't  I'll 


282  God's  Man 

give  it  to  them.  The  proudest  day  of  my  life's  gunna  be 
when  all  the  dames  along  this  Lane  point  me  out  as  a  good 
thing.  Them's  my  sentiments,  as  the  poet  says,  Sir  Marquis 
de  Mortimer  Montague.  .  .  ." 

But  as  they  parted,  Pink  to  go  in  the  direction  of  his  hotel 
to  change  into  his  "uniform,"  as  he  called  his  dress-clothes, 
he  added  one  proviso :  "Course  it's  up  to  you  to  see  he  don't 
fall  for  that  Petty  Boy's  frame-up.  Kinda  suggest  to  him 
it's  a  bad  business  to  let  women  have  much  cash.  I  never  let 
any  girl  I  was  doubled  up  with  have  more'n  half  a  dollar  at  a 
time.  A  dame  with  a  whole  dollar's  too  damn'  independent. 
Or  else  she  comes  home  with  some  truck  she  bought  'cause  it 
was  marked  down  two  cents — a  skirt  figures  if  she  buys  a 
thing  at  one  dollar  and  ninety-eight  cents  instead  of  two  dol- 
lars she's  saved  a  dollar.  They  oughtn't  to  be  trusted  with 
dough  at  all."  And  so  saying,  went  his  way. 

IV.  IN  WHICH  VELVET  VOICE  DOES  NOT  WAIT  FOR  ARNOLD 
TO  CAST  HER  OFF 

After  Pink  had  left  him  Arnold,  moody  and  wrathful, 
backed  against  an  angle  of  a  great  theater  that'  covered  a 
Broadway  block  and  watched  the  street  pass  into  the  exclusive 
possession  of  the  sex  he  was  engaged  in  hating. 

"Surely  this  is  Madman's  Lane — Madwomen's,  rather,"  he 
swore  sulkily,  several  toilettes  more  than  usually  blatant  hav- 
ing offended  him  beyond  reason,  one  a  sheath-skirt  with  nar- 
row-shouldered, tight-hipped  coat,  a  bright  purple  ensemble, 
the  hat  pulled  so  low  that  even  its  owner's  mouth  was  in 
shadow  as  she  hobbled  along  on  stilt-like  heels,  waddling  side- 
wise,  in  lame  duck  fashion.  Another,  .  .  .  but  to  re- 
member the  absurdities  would  be  to  catalogue  as  many  as 
Homer's  ships,  that  endless  number.  And,  worst  of  all,  these 
displays  of  costly  cloths,  silks,  satins  and  millinery  seldom 
served  their  object.  Their  men-folk  had  been  bankrupted  to 
prosper  modistes,  tailors  and  milliners,  who  forced  upon  weak- 


The  Happenings  of  a  Single  Day   283 

minded  women  fashions  so  radical,  so  bifurcated  and  trun- 
cated, biased  and  diagonaled,  as  to  serve  only  for  the  current 
cut — to  endeavor  to  remake  them  in  accordance  with  new 
edicts  was  to  take  apart  a  number  of  small  bits  that  would 
serve  no  purpose  other  than  a  crazy-quilt. 

This  technical  trickery,  however,  was  not  what  enraged  Ar- 
nold. It  was  that  these  styles  suited  only  one  woman  in  a 
score,  the  majority  appealing  to  only  one's  sense  of  humor — 
tight  skirts  on  stout  women,  slashed  skirts  on  angular  ones, 
small  hats  on  bucket-like  heads,  large  hats  on  tiny  bird-like 
ones,  high-heeled  slippers  bent  sidewise  from  carrying  double 
weight,  short-vamped  shoes  on  squat  broad  feet  that,  far  from 
disguising  their  size,  only  gave  them  the  appearance  of  tor- 
tured bunions  yearning  to  burst  through.  Verily  the  birds 
and  the  silkworms  had  been  slaughtered  in  vain,  and  men 
worked  overtime  to  no  purpose. 

"The  waste  of  it  all/'  Arnold  thought  bitterly.  "Men  like 
Archie  Hartogensis  worrying  themselves  sick  to  buy  things 
that,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  don't  even  have  the  excuse  of 
pleasing  the  eye.  .  .  .  And  the  self-sufficiency  of  these 
women !" 

He  turned  away  in  the  direction  of  a  cab-stand.  But  he 
paused  before  reaching  it:  he  was  at  that  stage  where  he  felt 
he  must  vent  his  ill-humor  with  the  world  on  some  one  de- 
serving verbal  castigation — what  use  to  go  to  Beeckman  Place 
and  waste  rhetoric  on  Harley  Quinn,  the  original  of  all 
misogynists:  to  him  Arnold's  opinions  would  be  those  of  one 
just  graduated  from  kindergarten.  .  .  .  Some  guilty  one 
was  wanted,  to  whom  his  words  would  be  insulting  icono- 
clasms.  .  .  .  And,  so  bitter  was  he,  the  thought  of  Vel- 
vet Voice  produced  no  softening  effect.  .  .  .He  strode 
back  toward  Eighth  Avenue,  between  which  and  upper  Long- 
acre,  on  several  streets,  new  apartments  had  replaced  the 
brownstone  fronts. 

Here  then  that  Mecca  of  the  Broadway  habitant,  a  furnished 
apartment,  sitting-  and  bedrooms,  kitchenette  and  bath,  in 


284  God's  Man 

one  of  them  Velvet  Voice  and  the  Little  One  with  their  dolls- 
housekeeping. 

Arnold  could  hardly  wait  for  the  slowly  rising  elevator.  Her 
door  was  opened  by  a  maid  in  the  sort  of  cap  and  apron  once 
chiefly  associated  with  musical-comedy  but  transferred  to  real 
life  by  the  actresses  therein.  Their  wearer,  who  seemed  too 
dainty  to  be  of  practical  use,  announced  Arnold  in  a  thin  af- 
fected voice,  and  showed  him  into  the  sitting-room.  He  had 
never  visited  the  place  before.  N"ow  he  saw,  everywhere,  the 
hand  of  the  obnoxious  Spedden — heavily  gilded  picture 
frames  surrounding  mediocre  landscapes,  hunting-scenes  and 
still-life,  tapestry  hangings  to  doors  and  windows,  white  fur- 
niture of  the  Trianon  sort,  all  commonplace  but  expensive — 
and  on  mantel,  tables,  and  on  the  top  of  the  little  white  cot- 
tage-piano, a  profusion  of  bric-a-brac  and  numberless  photo- 
graphs in  silver  and  silver-gilt  frames.  On  the  music-rack 
an  ambitious  composition  by  a  Eussian  symphonist — one  no 
one  could  execute  without  years  of  study.  Part  of  her  pose, 
he  supposed. 

The  heavy  scent  of  many  cut  flowers,  an  odorous  semi- 
decay,  hung  over  and  weighed  down  his  spirit  with  its  sickly 
sweetness.  Flowers  were  everywhere:  in  long  stemmed  Bo- 
hemian glasses,  in  high  slender  holders  of  chased  silver,  in 
bowls  of  china  and  cut-glass,  and  banked  up  and  beribboned 
were  pots  and  wicker-baskets  of  them  hiding  the  fireplace.  No 
taste  was  displayed  in  their  indiscriminate  arrangement,  so 
that  for  all  their  individual  beauty,  the  effect  produced  was, 
to  the  sensitive,  much  like  the  striking  of  rich  but  false 
chords.  And  Velvet  Voice,  entering,  seemed  like  one  of  her 
own  hardy  chaste  Northern  roses  set  amidst  sickly  but  luxu- 
riant hothouse  growths,  a  nymph  of  the  greenwood,  in  the 
artificial  fragrance  of  an  Oriental  harem.  For  she  was  in  a 
heavy  rich  robe  of  quilted  silk  that  was  shot  with  golden 
traceries  and  with  silver  threaded  dragons,  her  feet  in  red- 
heeled  gilt-toed  Turkish  slippers,  her  hair,  fresh  from  the 
ministrations  of  her  maid — a  masterpiece  of  artifice,  trimmed 


The  Happenings  of  a  Single  Day   285 

and  crowned  by  false  curls,  and  raised  and  interwoven  with 
false  switches.  He  noticed,  angrily,  that  she,  too,  had  come 
to  the  use  of  rouge :  a  hasty  dab  of  it  on  either  cheek  only  ac- 
centuated the  pallor  that  was  the  result  of  nights  spent  in 
tobacco-fouled  air  and  days  of  sleep  in  a  bedroom,  shut  off 
from  light  by  drawn  blinds  and  heavy  draperies. 

Yet,  despite  his  anger,  the  old  thrill  returned  at  the  sight 
of  her:  that  unaccountable  thrill  that  was  not  passion — and 
therein  lay  its  strength.  Alberta  Arden  appealed  far  more  to 
him  physically,  with  her  long  sinuous  lines  and  dark  fringed 
eyes,  half-closed  at  the  sight  of  him.  With  this  Velvet  Voice 
it  was  some  cursed  obsession,  he  told  himself  angrily :  her  soft 
voice  welcoming  him,  he  could  not  but  answer  tenderly.  What 
was  it,  this  love? — hypnotism?  What  absurd  nonsense  to 
attempt  to  explain  it  as  mere  passion.  Why,  if  this  were 
Bertie,  they  would  have  flown  immediately  into  each  other's 
arms;  he  would  have  clung  to  her,  his  eager  lips  on  hers. 
But,  afterward,  there  was  nothing.  Through  this  girl's  eyes 
he  saw  visions,  dreamed  conquests,  was  lifted  upward  and 
onward,  damn  her. 

"I'm  glad  you  finally  decided  to  come/'  she  said.  No  word 
of  their  quarrel,  of  his  determination  never  to  see  her  again. 
Maybe  she  thought  that  was  all  nonsense:  that  he  was  unable 
to  live  without  sight  of  her,  and  would  accept  any  terms — 
would  even  take  Spedden  seriously.  The  thought  drove  out 
the  welling  tenderness :  he  would  show  her  what  a  real  man 
was  like. 

"I  was  going  to  write  you,"  she  went  on.  ...  Fool! 
why  hadn't  he  waited:  she  would  have  capitulated.  (Thus 
his  traitor  heart  against  his  masterful  head. )  "Yes,  I  wanted 
you  to  understand,  and  show  you're  a  true  friend  by  coming  to 
my  wedding.  It  will  be  just  a  small  affair." 

Numbed  by  the  shock  though  he  was,  his  sense  of  humor 
caught  the  readiness  with  which  these  women  acquired  the 
"good  form"  patter — "only  a  small  affair" — and  a  few  months 
before  working  in  a  factory ! — "just  a  few  friends." — There  it 


286  God's  Man 

was  again :  the  society  novelists'  jargon — "You'll  come,  won't 
you?"  .  .  .  And  then,  in  shrill  alarm :  "What's  the  mat- 
ter with  you,  Arnold.  .  .  .  Don't  touch  me — you  forget 
yourself — "  Still  quoting  from  the  novels. 

He  had  risen  with  a  white  awful  face,  and  had  caught  her 
wrists,  hurting  them  sorely.  Then  he  grinned,  a  ghastly  sort 
of  grin  it  was ;  and  slowly  but  with  irresistible  pressure,  drew 
her  to  him  until  their  eyes  met :  when,  releasing  her  wrists,  he 
forced  back  her  head,  and  kissed  her  cold  tightly-closed  lips. 
His  own  were  colder,  tighter:  the  action  had  nothing  of  the 
caress  in  it.  It  was  merely  one  of  ownership ;  of  one  who,  hav- 
ing his  property,  could  use  it  at  his  will.  Then  he  pushed  her 
away.  She  caught  at  the  little  white  piano  for  support,  and 
stared  at  him  with  frightened  eyes. 

"You  are  going  to  get  married,  my  dear,"  he  said  savagely. 
"I'm  ready.  Take  off  that  trash  you've  got  on,  put  on  your 
street  clothes,  and  come  on.  I've  stood  all  the  foolishness 
from  you  I'm  going  to.  I've  got  a  little  money  and  we'll  get 
married  now — right  now.  D'you  hear,  Eunice?  .  .  . 
Well,  aren't  you  going  to  do  what  I  tell  you  to?" 

He  paused,  the  look  in  his  eyes  was  just  as  terrifying,  but 
it  no  longer  seemed  to  discompose  the  girl. 

"You've  been  drinking,"  she  said  contemptuously.  'TTou 
wouldn't  act  this  way  if  you  hadn't  been.  What  right  have 
you  ?  I've  got  my  chance  to  be  somebody  and  nobody's  going 
to  take  it  away  from  me.  What  do  you  know  about  being 
poor?  Six  months.  Is  that  ten  years?  I've  got  to  have  a 
lot  of  pleasure  to  make  up  for  that.  D'you  think  you  or  any 
other  man  can  take  the  place  of  Paris  clothes  and  motor-cars 
and  servants  to  wait  on  you  day  and  night,  and  everything 
made  pleasant  for  you?  Give  all  that  up  for  love?  Not  be- 
fore you've  had  it,  had  the  pleasure  that  goes  with  it.  ... 
I  tell  you  I  want  to  live!  I  want  to  see  the  world,  all  the 
wonderful  places  and  people  and  cities  and  boulevards  and — 
everything!  I  want  to  be  somebody:  to  know  the  big  people  of 
the  world  and  have  the  little  people  respectful  to  me.  I  want  to 


The  Happenings  of  a  Single  Day   287 

sit  in  opera-boxes  and  wear  clothes  and  jewels  that'll  make  peo- 
ple stare.  I  want  to  lie  back  in  my  motor-car  and  watch  peo- 
ple get  out  of  the  way.  I  want  all  the  things  I've  never  had. 
I  want — everything" —  she  made  a  wide  sweep  of  her  hand 
— "money  can  buy.  And,  my  dear  boy" — she  was  at  the 
novels  again  now,  the  bored  duchess  manner — "do  you  really 
think  the  difference  between  you  and  Mr.  Spedden  is  worth 
giving  up  all  those  things?  If  you  do,  you  must  be  insane. 
'Money  can't  buy  love/  you  hear  all  the  fools  say.  Who  wants 
love  when  they  can  have  everything  else :  one  hasn't  time  for 
it.  When  the  time  comes,  I  dare  say  love  will  come  with  it. 
Apply  then,  my  dear  Arnold.  At  present,  I'm  not  to  let." 

She  made  him  a  low  curtesy,  her  eyes  satirical.  "That  cave- 
man display  of  yours  was  quite  well  done,  though,"  she  added. 
"It  gave  me  a  real  thrill.  I  wanted  for  a  moment  to  let  my- 
self go.  If  it's  any  consolation  to  you,  Arnold,  believe  me 
I'd  sooner  marry  you  with  half  of  Spedden's  money,  even  a 
quarter,  I  guess.  But  can't  you  understand? — if  anybody 
can  you  ought  to,  considering  what  poverty  drove  you  to — " 
She  was  referring  to  the  suicide  she  supposed  he  had  at- 
tempted :  he  had  never  thought  to  undeceive  her.  "Remem- 
ber, I  would  have  done  the  same  thing  in  a  few  days — only  I 
knew  how  better  than  you."  He  remembered  the  rubber-tube 
with  its  red  lining,  that  evidence  of  cold-blooded  preparation 
that  had  made  him  shudder,  and  he  recognized  in  her  voice 
the  same  note  she  had  used  then.  And  the  sudden  fire  that 
had  flared  up  into  savagery  gave  its  last  flicker  at  the  realiza- 
tion of  a  determination  just  as  coldly  logical,  just  as  in- 
capable of  being  shaken,  as  that  one  of  yesteryear. 

Something  in  his  despairing  look  softened  her.  She  crossed 
to  him,  sat  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  caressed  his  hair.  "Ar- 
nold, dear,"  she  said  softly.  "In  the  struggle  to  support  me, 
to  give  me  what  you  want  the  woman  you  love  to  have,  you'd 
have  to  give  up  all  you  want  yourself.  You  wouldn't  be  a 
clever  boy  any  more,  you  wouldn't  be  able  to  make  your  mark. 
You'd  just  be  a  married  man,  with  hard  work  to  keep  up  the 


288  God's  Man 

life-insurance  and  pay  the  doctor  for  bringing  your  children 
into  the  world.  And  you'd  hate  me  in  a  year  or  so  for  ruin- 
ing your  career.  All  this  talk  about  love,  Arnold,  is  childish- 
ness :  pure  childishness.  One  woman's  not  much  different  from 
another  after  you  get  used  to  having  her  around.  That  idea 
of  the  'only  one' — it's  been  responsible  for  half  the  trouble  in 
the  world:  hatred  and  jealousy  and  murder.  It's  always  the 
toy  that's  hardest  to  get  that  looks  the  prettiest,  dear  Arnold. 
.  .  .  "We're  such  a  young  country.  I've  been  reading  lots 
lately  and  I'm  beginning  to  understand  human  nature  better. 
The  older  races  marry  their  boys  and  girls  before  they  see  one 
another — and  they  have  more  happy  marriages  than  we  do. 
It's  all  a  question  of  suitability,  indeed  it  is:  that's  what 
brings  happiness  in  marriage.  Marry  and  have  your  romance 
afterward,  the  French  say — your  romances — but  marriage's 
an  important  business  matter.  You  want  to  be  sure  your 
partner's  bringing  her  share  into  the  firm — and  what  would 
I  bring  you  ?  You  couldn't  let  me  go  on  taking  tips  as  a  tele- 
phone girl  and  jollying  men  to  get  them.  And,  to  support 
me,  you'd  have  to  give  up  the  things  that  make  you  happy. 
.  .  .  Can't  you  see?" 

He  had  never  loved  her  more  than  then,  but  he  nodded. 

frWhen  does  it  take  place  ?"  he  asked,  his  coolness  surprising 
him. 

She  shook  her  head.  "I'm  hoping  he'll  let  me  go  abroad 
first  and  get  a  sort  of  polishing-off  in  one  of  those  French 
convents  where  the  rich  Americans  go  to  mix  with  the  Eng- 
lish girls  and  learn  their  tricky  ways  of  talking  and  all  the 
little  mannerisms  a  fashionable  woman  ought  to  know.  .  .  . 
For  I'm  going  to  be  a  very  fashionable  woman,  Arnold,  dear, 
and  it's  all  up  to  me — I  must  get  rid  of  that  kind  of  talk,  by 
the  way — not  *up  to  me'  but — well  I  can't  think  of  anything 
else — I  mean  I'll  have  to  do  all  the  work  because  he's  one  of 
those  self-made  millionaires  who  wears  ready-made  clothes  and 
can't  talk  about  anything  except  things  that  bore  fashionable 
people.  ,  .  .  How  I've  studied  them  and  their  ways  and 


The  Happenings  of  a  Single  Day   289 

their  talk  since  I've  been  at  Sydenham's.  ...  So  I  hope 
he'll  let  me  do  that  first.  Then  we  can  be  married  abroad  and 
I'll  know  some  smart  girls  and  they'll  come  to  the  wedding 
with  their  people,  and  it  will  amount  to  something — instead 
of  being  a  vulgar  newspaper  story  about  'Western  Millionaire 
Marries  Telephone  Girl.'  A  thing  like  that  would  take  years 
to  get  over.  I  hope  I  can  make  him  see  it  my  way.  Less 
than  a  year's  all  I  ask  for.  ...  I  think" — she  meditated 
— "that  I'll  try  that  trick  of  saying :  'If  you  don't  love  me 
enough  to  wait  a  year  for  me,  here's  your  ring* — that  gen- 
erally works,  I'm  told.  But,  one  way  or  another,  I'm  leaving 
America  in  a  week.  So,  if  he  insists,  I'll  be  married  next 
Monday,  the  day  before  the  Chartic  sails — I'm  booked  on 
her—" 

Arnold  never  remembered  how  he  made  his  adieux  and  got 
to  the  street.  He  was  conscious  of  answering  questions,  of 
breaking  these  long  speeches  of  hers  with  appropriate  com- 
ments and  suggestions:  but  he  remembered  none  of  them. 
Only  there  danced  before  him  an  ugly  picture  of  the  un- 
speakable Spedden  bursting  out  of  a  smart  morning-coat  and 
white  gloves,  a  lily-of-the-valley  in  his  straining  buttonhole, 
a  pair  of  perspiring  red  ears — he  had  never  before  seen  ears 
perspire.  And  opposite  Spedden  was  Annie  Eunice  .  .  . 
while,  like  a  drowsy  honey-glutted  bee,  a  fashionable  rector 
in  smart  priestly  garb  intoned  a  service,  each  syllable  a  liv- 
ing horror,  implying  as  it  did  unalienable  possession  of  her 
by  that  red-eared  minotaur.  .  .  . 

But  the  effect  of  Captain  Danny's  drug  had  spent  itself 
now,  leaving  him  weak ;  for  the  thoughts  and  impressions  of 
many  hours  had  been  crowded  into  two,  and  the  hours  follow- 
ing must  be  bankrupt.  A  profound  listlessness  had  set  in  even 
while  the  girl  still  spoke :  now  he  no  longer  saw  even  the  pic- 
ture at  the  altar.  He  was  conscious  only  of  a  desire  to  rest: 
he  wished  he  were  in  Havre  de  Grace,  where  no  sound  save 
the  waves'  lullaby  reached  his  little  whitewashed  bedroom. 
,  .  .  But  it  was  almost  as  still  at  Beeckman  Place. 


290  God's  Man 

"I  feel  a  little  faint/'  he  had  said,  without  apology,  cutting 
her  short  as  she  spoke  of  her  coming  journey.  <rWould  you 
telephone  Quinn  that  I'm  coming  home — East  Eiver  200  it 
is — and  then  ask  the  office  to  get  a  taxicab.  .  .  ."  His 
voice  sounded  far  away ;  he  was  almost  on  the  point  of  looking 
around  to  see  who  had  entered  the  room.  A  surging,  as  of  a 
great  sea,  sounded  in  his  ears.  The  shock  of  her  announcement, 
of  his  own  violent  outbreak,  of  her  cool  planning  which  de- 
stroyed the  last  vestige  of  his  hope,  added  to  his  angry  con- 
cern for  Hugo  caused  by  the  whispering  in  the  alcove — all 
combined  to  wear  off  the  drug  effect  quickly,  and  leave  him 
almost  inert. 

She  gave  a  little  cry  of  alarm.  "Arnold,  dear  boy" — but 
he  repulsed  her  feebly :  he  did  not  want  one  to  touch  him  who 
could  so  calmly  consider  an  alliance  with  that  red-eared  mon- 
ster. He  was  again  puzzled  that  he  could  ever  have  desired 
her.  He  remembered  he  had  come  there  to  make  an  end  be- 
tween them  forever.  "Just  as  well  she  did  it,"  he  muttered 
gruffly  but  in  an  exhausted  tone,  "or  I'd  have  done  it  myself." 
He  was  not  conscious  of  the  absurdity  of  this  from  one  who 
had  so  recently  turned  Berserker  for  love  of  her. 

"Dear,  dear,  dear  boy,"  she  murmured  distractedly,  and  be- 
gan to  bathe  his  forehead  with  some  pungent  preparation,  di- 
recting the  musical-comedy  maid  to  do  the  telephoning  he 
had  requested.  Her  fingers,  the  necessity  for  hard  labor  over, 
seemed  to  have  gained  the  velvet  qualities  of  her  voice.  But 
Arnold  accepted  the  purely  physical  pleasure  of  the  contact: 
it  kindled  no  flame.  And  still  she  murmured  over  him  like 
a  mother  over  a  favorite  child,  hurt  through  some  maternal 
remissness.  In  a  dull  apathetic  way,  Arnold  had  a  feeling 
that,  if  he  were  to  urge  his  helplessness  as  strongly  as  he  had 
urged  his  strength,  her  remorse  would  force  consent,  for  all 
logic  flies  from  a  woman  who  has  been  made  to  feel.  And, 
at  this  moment,  Velvet  Voice  was  stirred  to  her  depths.  Off 
guard,  the  genuine  affection  she  had  for  him  rose  up,  almost 
.overpowering  her.  Her  fingers  moved  slower,  rested  longer 


The  Happenings  of  a  Single  Day   291 

upon  his  skin.  What  soft  skin  he  had  for  a  man,  not  moist 
and  sticky  like  Spedden's,  nor  unpleasantly  dry  like  other  men's 
— soft  but  firm,  and  so  white  and  clear  .  .  .  and  warm. 
A  desire  to  voice  soft  cooing  endearments  almost  choked  her: 
a  tenderness  that  strained  tears  to  her  eyes  swept  over  her. 
.  .  .  To  inspire  love  in  a  woman  is  to  combine  the  fear 
of  a  faithful  dog  with  the  maternal  desire  to  cradle  and  to 
rock.  To  win  a  woman  wholly  one  must  be  both  master  and 
child :  master  enough  to  cause  her  to  thrill  at  his  touch,  child 
enough  to  rest  helpless  upon  her  breast.  Both  of  these  Arnold 
had  been  in  that  hour.  And  so  it  was  the  moment  for  him 
to  stretch  up  his  hands,  drawing  her  down  until  his  head  was 
pillowed  upon  her.  But  he  was  too  tired  to  want  anything. 

Then,  so  complex  is  life,  so  many  the  strings,  so  tiny  the 
keys — the  telephone  rang,  and  she,  who  might  not  have  waited 
for  his  desire  but  have  acted  on  her  own,  must  answer  it. 
And,  at  the  mention  of  the  waiting  cab,  Arnold  was  on  his 
feet,  bidding  her  good-by,  was  evidently  eager  to  depart. 

Long  after  he  had  gone,  she  lay  in  the  gathering  dusk, 
hating  the  heavy  odor  of  the  dying  flowers,  clasping  tightly  a 
soft  pillow  of  eiderdown.  Once  the  maid  thought  she  heard 
her  moan. 

V.  CONCERNING  DULNESS  IN  THE  COFFEE  TRADE 

To  Mr.  Quinn — christened  Harvey,  from  which  the  pre- 
penultimate  letter  had  been  deleted  and  in  its  stead  one  sub- 
stituted that  carried  out  his  grotesque  humor  in  nomenclature 
— the  countries,  counties  and  cities  of  his  wanderings,  ex- 
isted only  as  names  for  various  local  dishes,  delectable  or 
otherwise.  He  only  regretted  that  from  his  occasional  funds 
there  must  be  deducted  the  price  of  clothes  sufficiently  pre- 
sentable to  admit  him  to  the  restaurants  where  these  dainties, 
with  suitable  liquid  accessories,  flourished  at  their  best. 
Therefore,  the  anxious  Captain  Danny  having  arrived  be- 
fore his  time  and  speaking  of  Yucatan,  Mr.  Quinn  was 


292  God's  Man 

moved  to  execute  some  masterpieces  of  frijohs,  chili  con 
carne,  and  some  weird  dulce  compounded  with  citron  sirup, 
rum  and  flour  paste,  the  ingredients  for  most  of  which  he  des- 
patched the  willing  Danny  some  fourteen  blocks:  therefore 
was  as  crestfallen  as  a  painter  rejected  of  Academy  or  Salon 
when  Arnold  merely  sampled  these  achievements  of  artistry 
and  put  down  knife,  fork  and  spoon. 

<rWomen  ?"  diagnosed  Mr.  Quinn  accurately  and  disgustedly 
for  Captain  Danny's  benefit :  he  knew  his  quasi-master  neither 
heeded  nor  heard  him  when  in  downcast  moods — which  were 
often  lately.  "Just  loves  misery,  the  boss  does — eats  it  alive. 
If  he  hasn't  it  for  breakfast,  he  keeps  it  on  ice  for  dinner. 
Misery's  always  fresh  in  this  house.  ...  If  it's  women, 
boss,  I  see  the  prettiest  little  peach  down  to  the  corner.  I 
was  hoping  you'd  be  back,  so's  I  could  get  your  word  to  buy 
some  candles — we  need  'em  case  the  electric  lights  blow  out 
some  day.  Not  that  they're  going  to  but  why  take  chances, 
and  anyway  I  gotta  have  an  excuse  for  speaking  to  her.  She 
works  behind  the  counter  in  that  lamp  store  over  on  Elm 
Street.  Never  let  a  woman  think  you  go  outa  your  way  to 
meet  her :  it  swells  her  all  up.  She  gets  to  think  too  durned 
well  of  herself.  This  one's  the  flirty  kind  and  would  fall  for 
a  fellow  like  you  easy.  .  .  .  I  see  her  give  the  eye  to  one 
of  those  jacks-in-unifonn  visiting  this  hyer  captain's  widow 
next  door — I  was  going  to  make  a  play  for  her  myself,  but — " 
and  he  sighed  but  struggled  nobly  to  preserve  an  appearance 
of  having  done  so  only  because  short  of  breath — "anything  to 
get  you  out  of  the  dumps,  boss.  Think  of  all  the  things  you've 
got  to  be  glad  of.  Anywhere  you  look.  You  don't  look  like 
him  for  instance" —  indicating  Captain  Danny — "or  me,  and 
can  grab  all  the  females  that  you  want.  Fellows  that  look 
like  us  'uve  got  some  reason  to  look  grumpy.  We  gotta  pick 
them  that'll  have  us.  Why,  if  I  thought  all  I  had  to  do  would 
be  to  walk  around  the  corner  and  get  that  girl  in  the  lamp 
store,  I'd  sing  little  songs  all  the  time — until  they  locked  me 
up—" 


The  Happenings  of  a  Single  Day   293 

But  noticing  that  Arnold's  chin  was  sinking  lower  on  his 
collar,  he  despaired  and  clattered  off  with  the  dishes.  Captain 
Danny,  thinking  of  roseate  Fourteenth  Street  and  time  wasted 
that  might  be  profitably  employed  in  laying  the  corner-stone 
of  a  magnificent  edifice  of  intoxication,  coughed  deprecatorily ; 
hemmed  and  hawed,  and,  with  an  apologetic  gesture,  touched 
Arnold's  arm.  "Found  the  stuff  A  No.  1,  didn't  you,  Mr. 
A.  L.  H.  ?"  he  asked  a  little  tremulously.  "Don't  tell  me  no, 
'cause  that  would  be  a  fine  piece  of  sail-making  if  you  didn't, 
after  all  that  greaser  Don  and  his  Chink  said — swore,  by  Jim- 
miny.  Hard  on  an  old  shell-back  that  sweated  blood  to  lay 
up  savings  for  a  safe  harbor  and  good  docking  after  the  last 
cruise.  Swing  the  couple  of  'em  up  in  my  own  rigging  if 
they  steered  me  wrong,  so  I  would,  Mr.  A.  L.  H."  And  the 
little  brown  turtle  face  looked  uncommonly  fierce,  like  that 
of  a  diminutive  pirate  who  made  up  in  ferocity  for  what  he 
lacked  in  size.  "Even  if  I  swing  myself  up  afterward.  What 
'ud  I  do  in  my  old  age  when  nobody  'ud  give  me  a  ship?" 
He  would  have  gone  on  indefinitely  had  not  Arnold  stopped 
him  by  calling  Quinn  to  fetch  his  cheque-book;  at  which  the 
bronzed  face  lit  up  and  the  flexible  turtle  neck  drew  back  into 
the  huge  white  turnover  collar  that  in  the  city  was  evidently 
his  concession  to  fashion,  along  with  a  suit  of  hard  shiny  cloth 
so  stiff  that  it  seemed  to  be  cut  from  the  same  wood-fiber  that 
Clabber  used  for  curtains. 

"I'll  post-date  it  a  day,"  Arnold  explained,  when  he  had 
sent  Quinn  back  to  his  kitchen.  "You  can't  cash  it  until 
"Wednesday,  I  mean."  And  as  a  perplexed  frown  came  to 
Captain  Danny's  face,  "The  stuff  we  opened  was  first-rate. 
"We're  going  to  select  half-a-dozen  more  to  try  out  to-morrow, 
and  if  they're  the  same,  don't  bother  about  your  cheque  not 
being  cashed  Wednesday."  Captain  Danny's  face  cleared. 
"If  they're  inferior,  we'll  have  to  make  another  deal.  That's 
fair,  isn't  it?  You  don't  need  cash  right  this  minute,  do 
you  ?" 

"No,  sir;  no,  Mr.  A.  L.  H.,"  returned  Captain  Danny, 


294  God's  Man 

bridling.  "No,  sir;  a  captain's  wages  at  the  end  of  a  cruise 
don't  leave  him  precisely  a  derelict,  no,  sir.  ...  As  for 
the  stuff,  if  one  can  was  A  No.  1,  they'll  all  be  the  same  or  the 
Cormorant's  a  low-down  freighter.  And  God  knows  she's 
beat  all  records  for  clipper-ships.  Did  I  tell  you  about  her 
run  from  Eio  when  the  owner,  old  Mr.  Archibald,  was  aboard  ? 
.  .  ."  He  went  maundering  on  while  Arnold  wrote  the 
cheque  and  filled  in  the  stub.  "There,"  he  said,  cutting  him 
short,  and  Captain  Danny  rose  to  go. 

"By  the  way,"  asked  Arnold.  "When  does  the  Cormorant 
go  out  again?"  The  question  seemed  involuntary,  a  mere 
piece  of  politeness,  that  would  atone  for  lack  of  interest  in  his 
story.  At  least  so  Arnold  told  himself.  That  foolish  plan 
which  in  all  its  comprehensive  details  had  flashed  upon  him 
at  Clabber's  had  nothing  to  do  with  it — he  should  say  not. 
Yet  he  had  an  uneasy  consciousness  that,  after  all,  it  might. 
"Nonsense,"  he  said  aloud. 

"No,  sir ;  not  nonsense,  though  it  sounds  so  to  say  the  finest 
clipper-built  ship  afloat  'ull  be  idle  for  months,"  protested  Cap- 
tain Danny,  and  Arnold  saw  that  the  sailor  had  been  answer- 
ing his  question.  "The  firm  has  just  got  more  Eio  in  its 
warehouses  than  it  has  orders  for  and  till  it  sells  half  it's  got 
anyway,  what's  the  sense  of  loading  up  with  more — which  is 
a  fine  piece  of  keel-hauling  as  I  said  myself  to  old  Mr.  Archi- 
bald, Esquire,  my  owner — a  fine  piece  of  barratry  and  mutiny, 
says  I,  when  the  firm  of  A.  V.  V.  &  Co.,  oldest  in  the  coffee 
trade,  ain't  even  got  one  ship  afloat — for  the  two  others  is 
hired  out  to  Mastersons,  guano  trade.  But  not  the  Cor- 
morant. Mr.  A.  V.  V.,  Esquire,  ain't  going  to  have  the  finest 
clipper-ship  afloat  stunk  up  by  guano,  not  him,  not  if  she  gets 
barnacles  on  her  bottom  as  big  as  a  bunch  of  bananas.  And, 
showing  what  it  is  to  work  for  gentlemen,  he  gi'es  me  half -pay 
all  the  time  she's  idle  sooner'n  lose  his  oldest  skipper.  .  .  . 
'Cause  I  was  in  the  trade  when  the  coffee  clipper  fleet  outa 
Baltimore — the  Leverings  and  the  Stewarts  and  all  them  old- 
time  merchantses — was  as  big  as  the  IT.  S.  Navy.  We  had 


The  Happenings  of  a  Single  Day   295 

times  them  days,  Mr.  A.  L.  H.,  owners  betting  almost  as  much 
as  what  their  cargo  was  worth  on  what  their  skippers  and 
ships  could  do,  and  the  skippers  getting  bonuses  every  time 
they  won  a  bet.  I  was  apprentice  then,  and  I  thought  when 
I  got  to  be  skipper  I'd  be  regular  rich.  But  steamers  got  to 
sell  too  cheap  since  then.  Nasty  dirty  boats  all  covered  with 
soot,  they  are,  the  kind  in  the  coffee  trade ;  old  worn-out  scrap- 
engines.  And  as  my  old  captain  always  said,  'Dirty  ship, 
dirty  cargo/  You  ought  to  see  the  Cormorant.  Eat  your 
dinner  off  her  deck  any  time.  Cleanliness,  says  I  to  my  boys, 
is  next  to  godliness,  leastwise  so  they  say,  but  I  ain't  sure  for 
a  sailorman  that  churches  got  holystoning  beat  much  at 
that.  .  .  ." 

Arnold  heard  very  little  of  these  reminiscences  and  opin- 
ions. His  mind's  eye  held  a  picture  of  the  peninsula  philoso- 
pher talking  of  his  Fights  and  Purposes.  .  .  .  Was  it 
truth  after  all,  or  was  it  only  coincidence  that  things  were 
being  made  so  fatally  easy  for  him  to  do  what  he  knew  he 
should  not  do  ?  And  yet — why  not  ?  If  it  was  written  that 
he  should  do  this,  what  was  the  use  to  struggle  ?  Some  fresh 
exigency  would  arise  to  compel  him  if  he  were  not  content  to 
obey.  "Who  was  he  to  say  that  it  was  evil  if  circumstances  so 
persistently  drove  him  to  its  execution  ?  ...  He  roused 
himself  to  hear  the  last  of  Danny's  harangue. 

"You  think  she  could  be  hired,  then?"  he  asked  idly.  The 
sailor  burst  into  an  eulogy  of  his  ship  calculated  to  strengthen 
any  wavering  idea  of  such  hire.  "I  was  just  thinking,"  Ar- 
nold remarked,  as  though  the  matter  was  of  small  moment, 
"that  if  Don  Gomez  had  much  of  such  stuff  as  I  tried  to-day 
it  would  be  worth  a  fortune  if  it  was  brought  to  New  York — 
by  a  man  who  was  willing  to  take  big  chances  for  big  profits," 
he  added  meaningly.  "No  need  to  tell  the  owners  what  for. 
Or  you  might  say — let's  see — that  I  was  going  down  there 
for  some  newspaper  that  wanted  to  investigate  the  truth  of 
the  revolution  we  hear  is  coming  off.  ...  I  don't  say 
I've  got  any  intention  of  doing  it,  but  you  might  cable  Don 


296  God's  Man 

Gomez  in  some  words  the  telegraph  people  wouldn't  under- 
stand and  ask  him  how  much  he  could  have  ready,  working 
day  and  night  shifts,  in  the  next  month  or  so.  And  you 
might  find  out  how  much  the  Cormorant  could  be  hired  for, 
cost  of  running  her  down  there  and  back,  and  how  much 
would  have  to  be  paid  your  men  to  keep  quiet.  I'll  pay  any 
expenses  you  go  to  to  give  me  these  figures.  .  .  .  But, 
mind,  I  don't  say  I'd  ever  do  it.  I'd  have  to  lay  it  before 
some  capitalists.  Just  see  you  don't  let  it  out,  that's  all,  or 
I  wouldn't  touch  it  with  fire-tongs.  ...  By  the  bye,  Mr. 
Van  Vhroon's  nephew — you  know  him?"  He  cut  short 
Captain  Danny's  usual  verbosity.  "He's  one  of  my  best 
friends.  That's  all  the  reference  you  need."  Another  fa- 
tally easy  detail,  he  thought  grimly.  "And,  mind  you,  a 
newspaper  cruise.  No  mention  of  the  Waldemar  Company  or 
my  connection  with  it,  understand  ?  Just  a  newspaper  man 
on  a  trip  of  investigation — " 

Captain  Danny's  small  turtle  neck  was  lengthening  and 
contracting,  his  little  eyes  gleamed  and  glittered,  his  hands 
trembled.  "It's  a  fortune,  sir,"  he  managed  to  breathe ;  "the 
easiest  fortune  ever  was  made  since  they  dug  gold  out  in  Cali- 
fornia. If  you're  thinking  of  it,  you  go  on  thinking,  take  my 
word.  It's  a  chance  I'd  take  myself  if  I  had  the  scads;  I 
often  thought  of  it.  It  'ud  put  old  Mr.  A.  V.  V.,  Esquire,  on 
his  feet  if  he'd  listen  to  me  and  do  it,  but  he's  one  of  the  old- 
fashioned  sort — old  school,  he  is,"  said  Captain  Danny  pity- 
ingly. "Sich  ideas  don't  get  you  nowhere  nowadays.  Which 
is  why  he's  going  to  shut  up  shop  one  of  these  here  fine  days 
and  file  his  petition,  so  he  is.  Wouldn't  listen  to  his  best 
friend — a  fine  piece  of  sail-making,  that  is.  ...  I'm  glad 
you're  known  to  young  Mr.  Archie,  'cause  old  Mr.  A.  V.  V., 
Esquire,  might  think  I'd  gone  somewhere  else  with  my  scheme 
if  you  was  a  stranger  to  him.  .  .  .  But,"  and  his  face 
became  suddenly  overcast,  "he  knows  you're  at  Waldemar's, 
don't  he  ?  That  settles  it,  Mr.  A.  L.  H.  He  wouldn't  hire 
you  the  Cormorant  if  it  saved  him  from  bankruptcy,  not  the 


The  Happenings  of  a  Single  Day   297 

old  gentleman.  .  .  . "  Captain  Danny  sank  down,  dispir- 
ited. 

"He  doesn't  know  me  at  all,"  said  Arnold  wearily.  If  only 
he  did ;  if  something  would  only  intervene  to  make  the  project 
impossible,  to  lessen  this  damning  feeling  of  being  propelled 
from  behind.  "And  I'll  see  that  his  nephew  doesn't  tell  him. 
But  cable  Don  Gomez  first — see  if  it's  worth  while.  That's 
all,  Captain.  I'm  very  tired.  Good  night." 

When  his  visitor  was  gone  he  sat  a  long  time  before  the 
fire,  watching  it  intently  yet  seeing  neither  coal  nor  flame, 
instead  only  the  scornfully  wise  face  of  the  peninsula  philoso- 
pher, as  he  told  him  one  did  not  suffer  so  much  only  to  moon 
away  his  life  with  an  unanswered  question  in  his  eyes.  "Why  ?" 
And  he  had  replied  he  did  not  wish  to  know.  But  it  had  been 
a  lie;  he  wanted  to  know  more  than  he  wanted  wealth  or 
women  or  fame.  Why — why — why — why  was  he  driving  to- 
ward the  rocks  of  cynicism  and  crime?  Or  was  it  cynicism? 
Perhaps  it  was  truth.  Was  it  crime?  Crime  was  only  a 
word;  like  morals,  as  many  wise  men  had  said,  a  matter  of 
geography.  Was  it  not  rather  that  he  should  acquire  wealth, 
he  who  would  use  it  so  well,  who  thus  would  be  enabled  to 
help  the  weak  in  their  losing  battle  against  the  strong  ? 

He  thrust  these  sophistries  from  him  angrily — they  were 
the  Hartogensis  brand,  a  type  of  hypocrisy,  grown  all  too  fa- 
miliar of  late.  .  .  .  The  strong  must  always  be  the  vic- 
tors. It  was  they  who  must  be  helped,  must  be  taught  that 
happiness  did  not  lie  on  the  side  of  selfishness.  The  weak — 
the  rabble — must  first  become  strong  before  they  could  be 
taught  anything.  They  were  only  what  they  were  because 
they  feared;  give  them  power  and  they  were  more  merciless 
than  the  strong — as  are  a  pack  of  wolves  than  a  single  lordly 
lion.  If  the  lions  could  only  be  taught  to  help  instead  of 
harm,  not  for  any  moral  reason  but  because  that  way  led  to 
the  most  and  best  in  life.  When  strong  men  learned  this, 
then,  like  the  Crusader  Lucas  and  the  Chevalier  Etienne, 
things  happened  that  were  worth  while. 


298  God's  Man 

Their  faces  looked  up  at  him  out  of  the  fire.  For  all  the 
Crusader's  cap  of  chain-male  and  the  Chevalier's  steel  bonnet, 
they  seemed  singularly  kind — and  singularly  like  his  own.  He 
thrilled  at  the  thought.  And  there  was  the  name  L'Homme- 
dieu — "God's  Man."  That  was  the  answer.  Evil  was  piled 
in  his  way  that  he  might  conquer  it.  And  the  figures  of  his 
childhood's  Pilgrim's  Progress,  creatures  of  quaint  eighteenth- 
century  wood-cuts,  peopled  the  flames. 

"Christian"  had  obstacles  to  surmount,  battles  to  fight,  foes 
to  slay,  that  weaker  souls  might  pass  in  safety.  That  was 
indeed  the  answer.  .  .  .  Christian.  .  .  .  "God's 
Man"— God's  Knight— God's  Chevalier.  And  what  was 
their  descendant? 

Picked  out  in  the  blue  gases  and  deep  reds  of  the  grate,  he 
saw  a  prisoner  in  clanking  chains.  Leering  evil  shapes  were 
about  him  and  foul  spawn  were  at  his  feet.  Glaring  up  at 
him  from  dark  desperate  eyes,  a  monstrous  ogre  with  a 
knotted  club  sat  ready  to  fell  him  to  earth  should  he  cease  to 
observe  the  filth  at  his  feet — for  he  had  only  to  look  overhead 
to  see  a  way  of  escape,  and  just  beyond  the  shepherds  of  the 
Delectable  Mountains.  .  .  .  "Christian  in  the  Power  of 
Giant  Despair,"  the  old  wood-cut  had  been  captioned.  In- 
stinctively Arnold  squared  his  shoulders.  Quinn,  entering  at 
the  sound  of  his  chair  grating  back,  was  gratified  at  the  sight 
of  his  smiling  face. 

"Remember  when  you  worked  for  my  Dad — or  rather  got 
first  aid  to  the  injured?  How'd  you  like  to  live  down  there 
all  the  time — there  instead  of  here  ?  Matter  to  you,  Quinny  ?" 

"With  ducks  flying  so  thick  you  can  bring  'em  down  with 
a  bean-shooter  and  sturgeon  and  black  bass  and  all  kinds  of 
small  fish  hopping  around  as  sassy  and  as  many  as  May- 
flies, and  reed-birds  in  clouds  and  snipses  and  quailses  in 
armies  and  as  many  lobster-pots  as  there  is  buoys  in  the  har- 
bor that  somebuddy  set  to  save  you  trouble !  Matter !  And 
beds  so  soft  the  oysters  get  as  fat  and  juicy  as  oranges,  and 


The  Happenings  of  a  Single  Day   299 

bushels  of  clams  and  shell-fish  at  every  low-tide.  And — but 
what's  the  use?  It  only  makes  me  hungry.  Matter!  I 
should  say  it  does  matter.  Why,  I  was  willing  to  work  to 
stick  around  your  place.  Didn't  I  do  odd  jobs  at  Waldemar'a 
after  I  left  you?  But  after  that  the  floating  population 
seemed  to  ha'  grabbed  every  other  job  and  after  I  got  so  tired 
havin'  my  right  arm  so  numb  from  being  tied  up  'cause  I  lost 
it  in  the  war  and  was  therefore  deserving  of  free  pie,  I  quit. 
.  .  .  But  that's  my  ideas  of  dying  and  goin'  to  Heaven, 
Boss.  I  dare  you  to  turn  me  loose  among  all  that  food.  I'll 
bet  you  if  anybody  ever  stayed  to  our  house  a  week  they'd 
bust  right  out  laughing  every  time  anybody  ever  talked  about 
the  Caffy  de  Parry  or  Mr.  Plaza's.  I  dare  and  double-dare 
you." 

"You're  on,"  said  Arnold,  still  smiling,  and  held  out  his 
hand. 

What  a  fool  he  had  been  to  pay  any  attention  to  that  non- 
sense of  the  peninsula  philosopher.  Down  there,  with  a 
beneficent  Nature  outside  and  absorbing  work  within,  life  was 
as  it  should  be.  He  had  been  back  here  less  than  a  day  and 
was  reduced  to  melancholy  brooding  already,  had  taken  opium, 
had  hatched  a  nefarious  scheme  while  under  its  influence,  had 
learned  of  Hugo's  regrettable  waste  of  affection,  Bobbie 
Beulah's  cheap  infatuation  and  pitiful  treachery,  had  been 
enraged  by  a  street  full  of  painted,  half-dressed  peafowl 
women,  had  seen  the  girl  he  loved  turn  sordid  and  mer- 
cenary. .  .  . 

Fight?  What  was  there  to  fight  up  here?  These  people 
were  unredeemable.  Let  them  go  the  way  they  liked.  If  he 
remained  too  long  among  them  he  would  be  the  same.  His 
message  was  to  others  than  these.  .  .  . 

<fYes — to-morrow  night,"  he  told  Quinn.  "See  that  trunk 
the  Captain  brought?  Make  two  equal  -consignments  of 
what's  in  it.  Mark  one  for  <M.  Clabber,  47th  Street/  the 
other  for  'E.  Apricott,  Rupert  Passage.'  Use  a  couple  of 


300  God's  Man 

those  grocery  boxes  in  the  cellar.  Be  sure  and  nail  'em  up 
tight.  .  .  .  I'm  going  back  home  to-morrow.  You  can 
come  as  soon  as  you  arrange  everything  here." 

VI.  THE  PINK  KIMONO  COMES  BACK  TO  BEECKMAN  PLACE 

His  foot  was  light  upon  the  stair  as  he  bounded  up  to  his 
room.  The  very  thought  of  Havre  de  Grace  was  like  opening 
a  window  in  a  close  room  and  seeing  the  smoke  and  the  vapors 
incontinently  driven  forth.  He  would  get  Clabber's  money  in 
the  early  afternoon;  but,  before  that,  he  would  have  closed 
with  Enoch  Apricott  for  the  balance  of  the  stuff.  He  knew 
from  Pink  and  Beau  that  were  the  bargain  worth  the  trouble 
Mother  Mybus  could  raise  any  reasonable  amount  of  cash  on 
demand.  If  he  got  less  from  her  than  from  Clabber — well — 
the  Clabber  sale  was  a  stroke  of  luck,  anyway.  .  .  .  And 
he  could  be  aboard  the  Havre  de  Grace  Express  and  home  in 
time  for  dinner. 

As  he  stumbled  about  on  the  upper  landing,  fumbling  for 
the  hall  gas,  a  pungent  odor  attracted  his  attention.  Bertie's 
favorite  perfume.  How  it  lingered.  And  that  reminded 
him  he  must  have  Quinn  pack  her  things,  notably  her  silver 
toilet-set — a  mark  of  progress,  that  set — a  present  from  her 
first  admirer.  At  her  own  place  she  had  a  gold  one,  Gayton's 
donation.  Poor  Bertie !  He  would  write  and  explain.  Per- 
haps "old  Gayton"  could  be  won  back  if  Arnold  made  her 
understand  how  hopeless  their  affair  was.  ...  He  hated 
himself  for  such  thoughts.  It  was  another  proof  of  Manhat- 
tan's ill  influence  that  he  could  calmly  think  of  her  in  the 
arms  of  a  man  she  hated.  But,  after  all,  why  blink  matters  ? 
What  was'  the  difference  between  Velvet  Voice  marrying 
Spedden  and  Bertie  accepting  Gayton's  "protection"?  She 
would  soon  begin  the  little  battles  of  her  craft  again,  sending 
him  away,  seeing  him  only  when  her  bank-account  was  in 
jeopardy.  Perhaps,  if  Gayton  really  cared  for  her  and  Bertie 
was  clever,  she  could  arrange  it  so  that  he  would  settle  some- 


The  Happenings  of  a  Single  Day   301 

thing  on  her.  Arnold  would  arrange  for  some  one  to  suggest 
this.  Pink,  for  instance.  Maybe  she  might  find  consolation 
in  Pink.  Then  ghe  might  have  both  money  and  love. 

Arnold  laughed.  Then  his  eyes  hardened.  A  nice  set  of 
thoughts,  truly !  A  year  before  he  would  have  seen  no  com- 
edy in  Pink's  oblique  view-point,  indeed  would  have  scorned 
such  an  acquaintance.  But  it  was  difficult  to  scorn  Pink 
when  he  knew  his  outlook,  actions,  avocations  and  occupa- 
tions were  but  the  result  of  example  and  environment.  He 
had  seen  life  so  lived,  had  neither  created  nor  desired,  only 
accepted  it.  And  his  quaint,  vivid,  often  picturesque  speech 
denoted  such  accurate  observation  and  felicity  of  expression 
that,  had  he  had  the  proper  training,  these  gifts  might  have 
made  him  a  "star-reporter,"  a  highly-paid  writer  of  adver- 
tisements, even  of  fiction.  It  was  not  by  choice  he  was  what 
he  was.  How  gladly  he  had  availed  himself  of  the  oppor- 
tunity to  "turn  square,"  even  though  the  reward  was  less. 

There  was  that  confounded  puzzle,  that  iniquitous  philoso- 
pher's why — why — why.  And  of  all  the  "why's"  why  could 
not  he  cease  from  troubling  himself  about  other  people's  af- 
fairs ?  ...  He  smiled  grimly ;  that  was  easily  answered. 
That  was  his  work,  his  future.  His  brow  wrinkled  again; 
once  more  the  unanswered  question  was  in  his  eyes,  and  he 
was  struggling  against  a  belief  in  what  the  philosopher  had 
prophesied.  .  .  .  Joy  fled  him,  and  he  felt  it  fleeing. 
Was  this  sort  of  thing  to  go  on  forever  ?  In  that  case  small 
pleasure  was  in  store  for  him,  home  or  anywhere.  .  .  . 

A  sound  in  the  next  room  startled  him.  Eecollecting  he 
had  failed  to  direct  Quinn  to  call  him  early,  he  was  about  to 
lift  his  voice  for  his  retainer,  when  the  sound  was  repeated. 
It  was  as  though  some  one  dropped  a  shoe  from  a  bedside. 
And  then  he  knew  that  Bertie  had  entered  with  her  latch-key 
while  he  had  sat  before  the  fire.  He  knew  he  should  be 
alarmed  and  angry,  should  lock  his  door;  at  any  sign  of 
intrusion  should  make  bold  to  say  what  he  had  intended  to 
write. 


302  God's  Man 

But — such  is  human  nature — he  was  conscious  of  far  differ- 
ent emotions.  Nor  was  he  angry  that  it  should  be  so.  He 
remembered  only  that  Bertie  was  very,  very  pretty,  very,  very 
much  desired,  and  that  she  loved  him  very,  very  much.  All 
of  which,  coming  on  Velvet  Voice's  rejection  of  him,  rilled  him 
with  a  fierce  satisfaction.  To  his  qualms  of  disturbed  con- 
science he  made  angry  replies.  Had  he  sought  Bertie  out? 
Would  it  not  be  brutal  to  reject  her  without  warning  after  her 
long  absence,  just  when  she  thought  to  give  him  a  pleasant 
surprise?  Was  he  stone  that  he  could  endure  the  sound  of 
sobbing  all  night?  Had  he  given  her  the  latch-key;  had  she 
not  had  it  made  herself  ? 

At  the  third  sound,  that  of  a  window  opening,  he  found 
himself  trembling.  A  pleasurable  tremor  it  was,  too,  and  it 
brought  him  to  his  feet  and  took  him  toward  the  door.  He 
was  hardly  conscious  of  his  actions ;  he  submitted  them  to  the 
approval  of  neither  brain  nor  conscience.  His  exit  into  the 
hall  was  almost  involuntary.  Then  came  the  opening  of  her 
door,  the  quick  closing  of  it,  behind  him.  ...  At  the 
sight  of  the  room's  many  little  feminine  touches  his  trembling 
became  violent,  his  voice,  when  he  tried  to  find  it,  was  simply 
nowhere. 

The  little  fringed  pink  shades  of  the  candles  on  her  dress- 
ing table  threw  the  light  downward  on  her  polished  silver 
brushes,  on  her  cut-glass  bottles.  How  little  a  woman's  touch 
changes  a  room,  yet  how  much.  The  cretonne  hangings  to 
the  windows,  the  soft  furry  mat  on  the  floor  by  the  bed,  the 
lace  doily  under  another  pink-handed  candle  on  the  night- 
table,  and  in  its  light  her  long  jeweled  bar-pin,  her  rings,  her 
golden  vanity-case  and  mesh-bag  studded  with  brilliants,  the 
gold  baby-pins  that  had  fastened  her  blouse,  all  lay  in  a 
sparkling,  shiny  mass — all  was  as  before,  and  over  all  the 
delicate  odor  of  iris,  so  much  her  own  particular  perfume  that 
it  was  a  part  of  her.  .  .  .  Everything  as  before.  She 
might  never  have  gone  away.  .  .  . 

A  curious  sense  of  the  naturalness  of  the  situation  gave  him 


The  Happenings  of  a  Single  Day   303 

no  chance  to  think.  He  was  soothed  and  lulled  by  habit, 
habit  the  traitor  that  bids  the  brain  not  bother  about  matters 
unworthy  its  attention ;  and,  while  it  rests,  infringes  upon  its 
prerogatives.  Unconsciously,  then,  Arnold's  eyes  sought  a 
familiar  object  that  was  missing — the  pink  kimono  that 
should  hang  on  the  closet  door.  Slowly  he  turned  and  saw 
her  wrapped  in  its  filmy  folds.  What  a  beautiful  thing  she 
was!  so  soft  and  appealing,  what  a  childish  neck  and  shoul- 
ders, with  just  the  faintest  indication  of  shoulder-blades  under 
her  rosy  flesh,  flesh  that  seemed  so  alive ;  even  her  hands — not 
like  the  cold,  unresponsive  hands  of  most  women,  the  result 
of  calculating  hearts  that  beat  out  just  enough  blood  for  prac- 
tical purposes.  She  was  warm,  vivid,  like  a  tropical  flower 
on  a  long  slender  stem. 

Later  that  night  he  was  puzzled  to  know  what  persuasions 
she  had  used  to  break  down  his  defenses.  What  had  brought 
this  affair  back  to  where  it  had  been  when  she  went  away  ?  He 
could  remember  nothing;  could  not  tell,  even,  how  he  had 
persuaded  himself.  He  had  thought  it  would  be  brutal  to 
lock  his  door  against  her — he  recalled  that.  But  between 
such  a  negative  and  the  affirmative  of  kisses  and  caresses  there 
was  only  a  blank.  .  .  . 

Actually  when  their  eyes  met  she  had  put  out  two  small 
fluttering  hands,  and  he  had  come  forward  to  take  them  just 
as  he  had  always  done.  And  then  the  scent  of  the  iris  be- 
came mingled  with  another,  subtler  and  sweeter — that  "per- 
fume of  her  presence"  one  reads  of.  It  overpowered  Arnold, 
as  always.  He  drew  her  to  him  and  breathed  her  deeply,  the 
soft  lace  and  diaphanous  silk  of  the  pink  kimono  pressed 
against  his  face. 

And  then  she  seemed  to  be  seized  by  a  sudden  wildness.  It 
thrilled  him  and  warmed  the  lips  and  arms  that  held  her.  It 
was  wonderful  to  know  that  she  was  fragile  and  that  he  waa 
crushing  her  in  his  fierce  embrace. 

"You  still  love  me,  Arnold?  You  haven't  been  untrue  to 
me  ?  Oh,  Arnold !  Have  you  ?"  The  loose  sleeves  of  the 


304  God's  Man 

kimono  fell  back  from  her  soft  arms  as  they  wound  them- 
selves around  his  neck.  And  he  lied — his  voice  thick,  his 
eyes  humid. 

"I  love  you,"  he  choked  out;  "I  love  you.  What  did  you 
want  to  go  away  for  ?  I've  wanted  you  so  much.  ...  So 
much.  .  .  ." 

That  had  been  it,  he  told  himself  with  heart  beating  high. 
If  she  had  not  gone  Velvet  Voice  wouldn't  have  mattered.  It 
was  the  same  thing,  only  he  had  been  a  sentimental  ass,  had 
called  it  by  sanctified  names.  Yes,  he  loved  Bertie !  The 
word  meant  just  this  and  nothing  more.  It  meant  thoughts 
of  soft  fragrant  arms,  of  a  beautiful  body  dimly  outlined 
through  sweet-smelling  silks  and  lace;  it  meant  eyes  half- 
closed,  cheeks  blazing  high,  and  burning  red  lips  to  kiss  and 
kiss  again.  .  .  . 


END  OF   BOOK   IT 


BOOK  V 


CHAPTER    ONE 


THE  BLOW  FALLS 


I.  "VAN  VHBOON",  COFFEE" 

THE  two  rivers  that  Manhattan 
separates  and  which  it  allows 
to  meet  only  when  both  have 
reached  the  open  sea,  one  is 
spanned  by  networks  of  cob- 
webby steel,  over  which  fly  trol- 
leys, motor-propelled  vehicles 
and  wagons,  on  their  way  to 
Long  Island.  Both  are  crowded 
with  ferries  crowded  with  peo- 
ple, and  ships  crowded  with  car- 
goes, ships  leaving  or  reaching 
the  many  piers  and  docks — • 
docks  that,  near  the  coast  line's 

center,  are  as  gigantic  as  the  great  ocean  greyhounds  whose 
kennels  they  are ;  docks  that  grow  smaller  as  the  river  rushes 
on  toward  the  sea,  for  nearer  the  Battery  and  almost  in  sight 
of  a  certain  satiric  Statue  are  the  homes  of  the  older  ships 
built  in  those  days  when  Americans  actually  pretended  to 
enjoy  wasting  a  week  or  more  of  valuable  time  crossing  so 
stupid  an  arrangement  as  an  ocean. 

Down  among  these  antiquated  devices  of  commerce  lay  the 
Cormorant,  "coffee  clipper,"  her  slim  masts  slanting  toward 
her  stern,  like  the  very  latest  thing  in  transatlantic  liners' 
funnels;  indeed,  so  scanty  of  beam  was  she,  so  sharp  of  bow 


308  God's  Man 

hollowed  out  toward  the  water  line,  and  so  elliptical  of  stern, 
as  to  appear  remarkably  and  jauntily  long.  She  had  been 
the  pride  of  her  Philadelphia  yard  at  her  launching,  and  al- 
though that  dated  back  a  quarter  of  a  century,  she  still  re- 
mained the  latest  model  of  her  type.  Since  then  she  had 
been  hauled  into  dry  dock  many  times;  she  had  been  given 
a  new  keel  and  a  new  bottom;  her  plates  had  been  renewed; 
while  as  for  masts,  sails,  spars,  rigging  and  gear  in  general, 
their  name  was,  if  not  legion,  at  least  cohort. 

Below  decks  it  would  have  been  the  same,  but,  as  for  ex- 
ample, her  main-cabin  had  been  originally  finished  in  bird's- 
eye  maple,  with  "skeleton  linings"  of  the  best  Bessemer  steel, 
its  "lunatic"  owner — as  Archibald  Van  Vhroon  was  called  by 
a  newer  type  of  merchant — had  found  little  excuse  for  expend- 
iture here.  Nevertheless,  he  had  installed  some  recent  plumb- 
ing to  remove  an  odor  usual  and  expected  by  all  who  sailed 
in  such  ships.  Save  only  for  a  lack  of  modern  heating,  officers 
and  crew  might  have  found  no  more  comfortable  quarters  in 
the  greyhounds  themselves;  indeed,  less  so,  for  her  quarters 
were  never  crowded ;  and,  as  for  heat,  there  was  a  fire-place  in 
the  main-cabin  for  officers,  and  the  galley-fire  served  suffi- 
ciently for  the  crew. 

Altogether,  she  was  the  pride  of  old  Archibald's  heart; 
never  was  he  happier  than  when  he  was  on  the  pier  watching 
her  warp  in  or  stand  out,  returning  from  or  going  on  that 
cause  which  she  had  covered  times  without  number.  Until 
recently  she  had  had  company;  as  near  as  the  nineties  there 
had  been  four  clippers  in  the  Van  Vhroon  fleet,  one  or  two 
of  which  were  always  in  the  slips.  But  they  had  been  sold 
or  hired  out  now  and  the  extra  slip  (there  were  two  to  the 
Van  Vhroon  establishment)  had  been  leased  to  another  firm 
that  sent  out  a  large  number  of  barges  on  the  Long  Island 
trade.  One  of  them  lay  there  now,  ready  to  be  towed  away, 
her  decks  heaped  up  with  coal  and  wood.  Her  huge  clumsy 
build,  stem  and  stern  alike,  her  dirty,  coal-covered  strips  of 
deck,  were  the  greatest  possible  contrast  to  the  slim,  clean 


The  Blow  Falls  309 

Cormorant,  with  her  holystoned  decks  and  polished  brass- 
work  shining  in  the  sun. 

The  Van  Vhroon  establishment,  besides  the  long  broad 
pier  and  the  two  harbor  slips,  consisted  of  a  large,  rambling 
wooden  structure  that  rose  over  the  pier  archway  and  ex- 
tended half-way  down  toward  the  green  water-stained  piles, 
roofing  half  the  pier.  In  the  old  days  this  covered  space  had 
usually  been  crowded;  on  one  side  of  the  iron  truck-tracks 
consignments  just  unshipped  and  waiting  to  be  warehoused, 
on  the  other  bales  and  boxes  marked  in  packing  ink  for  deliv- 
ery within  the  city  or  to  be  sent  out  North  and  South,  by 
train  or  boat.  One  side  led  into  the  warehouses,  the  other 
into  the  offices.  On  the  lower  floor  of  this  latter  was  the 
Captain's  room,  where  those  officers  and  their  mates  and 
boatswains  might  gather  over  their  pipes  and  their  drinks; 
back  of  this  a  larger  room  for  the  crews.  Above,  reached  by 
a  dark  and  narrow  flight  of  stairs  resembling  a  companion- 
way,  was  what  old  Mr.  Archibald  insisted  on  calling  his 
"counting-room."  It  had  once  held  a  dozen  clerks  on  high- 
stools,  separate  cages  for  head-bookkeeper  and  cashier.  Lead- 
ing off  this  and  facing  the  river — the  counting-room  itself  was 
dark  and  lighted  by  green-shaded  fixtures — were  two  smaller 
rooms,  one  utilized  for  correspondence,  containing  a  stenog- 
rapher, a  file  clerk  and  Mr.  Archibald's  private  secretary — 
who,  of  later  years,  had  been  young  Mr.  Archibald,  as  the 
clerks  called  him — Archie  Hartogensis. 

The  other  room  bore  little  resemblance  to  a  modern  busi- 
ness office.  It  had  Turkey-red  carpeting,  handsome  mahog- 
any furniture,  pleasant  fire  of  sea-coal  reposing  in  a  bed  of 
ornamental  iron-work,  a  cradle-grate,  on  the  head  of  which 
was  pictured,  in  dull  black  iron,  lighted  brilliantly  by  the 
flames,  a  wood-cutter's  hut  set  in  a  German  forest.  The  fire- 
place itself  was  of  the  "Adam-and-Eve"  variety,  cunningly 
carved  with  fruits,  flowers  and  fig-leaves,  its  mantel  cut  out- 
ward with  rounded  corners;  above  it  a  long,  narrow,  old- 
fashioned  gilt-framed  mirror.  On  the  walls  were  various  oil- 


310  God's  Man 

paintings  and  water-colors  of  departed  Van  Vhroons,  their 
captains  and  their  ships.  In  a  dark  corner  the  glass  doors  of 
a  high  curio-closet  caught  an  occasional  fire-gleam;  behind 
them  were  curious  objects  from  all  quarters  of  the  globe,  pres- 
ents from  the  Van  Vhroon  mariners. 

In  the  exact  center  of  the  room,  under  a  chandelier  with 
many  cut-glass  prisms  of  the  "dew-drop"  sort,  was  a  long 
carved  table  with  curved  bellying  legs,  a  broad  table  with 
many  drawers,  its  basket  of  papers,  files,  inkstands  and  other 
implements  giving  the  only  hint  that  business  was  conducted 
here.  And,  with  the  spars  and  funnels  of  ships  passing 
beyond  the  windows,  one  had  a  curious  feeling  of  being  in  a 
London  office  overlooking  the  Thames  Embankment — an  effect 
increased  by  the  sight  of  the  Lunatic  who  sat  at  the  table  and 
who,  in  frock-coat,  poke-collar  and  broad-banded  black  ascot, 
seemed  to  have  stepped  directly  from  the  pages  of  Charles 
Dickens. 

You  doubt  he  was  a  lunatic  ?  "What  other  sort  of  American 
would  have  continually  overhauled  his  vessels  before  the  Gov- 
ernment Inspectors  demanded  it?  If  it  had  been  a  matter 
of  insurance,  now.  .  .  .  But  the  Lunatic  was  thinking  of 
the  safety  of  captains  and  crews.  Who  else  but  a  lunatic 
would  have  retained  in  service  nine  clerks  when  every  one 
knew  the  business  warranted  only  six?  Lucky  for  him  three 
others  had  died  else  he'd  have  had  a  dozen,  as  in  the  old  days. 

And  who  but  a  lunatic  would  have  held  out  against  Com- 
bination Coffee?  If  he  had  sold  when  he  had  the  chance  he 
might  have  retired  with  a  snug  little  fortune — the  Van 
Vhroons  had  been  for  nearly  two  hundred  years  the  first  of 
the  coffee  firms.  But,  with  his  stupid  sailing-ships  and  an- 
tiquated ideas  of  distribution,  how  could  he  compete  with  a 
combination  that  had  trade-marks  almost  as  old,  had  steamers, 
had  retail  stores  all  over  the  country  that  could  sell  at  prices 
impossible  to  any  single  firm?  True,  old-fashioned  grocers 
with  old-fashioned  customers  still  dealt  with  the  Lunatic,  but 
they  were  dying  off,  grocers  and  customers  alike,  and  their 


The  Blow  Falls  311 

sons  or  other  successors  were  doing  business  with  the  smart 
young  salesmen  of  Combination  Coffee.  The  Lunatic's  one 
salesman,  who  made  a  yearly  trip,  was  as  out-of-date  as  his 
braided  cutaway  and  square-top  derby. 

Yet,  even  now,  for  the  name  and  the  trade-mark,  the  kindly 
Combination  was  willing  to  take  over  his  amusingly  absurd 
business  and  pay  well  therefor.  Would  any  one  but  a  lunatic 
refuse  ?  .  .  .  And  there  were  many  little  touches  of  idiocy 
unknown  to  the  world-at-large,  such  as  refusing  the  rehabili- 
tation offered  by  Captain  Danny's  great  scheme.  To  which 
the  Lunatic  was  now  referring  when  that  astute  mariner  had 
put  forward  the  offer  of  a  private  gentleman  to  take  over  the 
Cormorant }  which  would  not  only  keep  that  bird  from 
"eating  her  head  off" — vide  Captain  Danny — but  pay  office 
expenses  and  return  some  profit. 

"I  knowed  you'd  say  I  was  up  to  my  little  games,  so  I  did," 
said  Danny  aggrievedly,  squirming  under  injustice  in  one  of 
the  Heppelwhite  chairs.  "But  you've  got  me  wrong  as  usual, 
Mr.  Archibald,  sir,  which  your  nephew,  young  Mr.  Archibald, 
kin  testify  to  if  you'll  be  so  kind  as  to  call  him."  The  head  of 
the  firm  pressed  a  button.  "No,  sir,  Mr.  Archibald,  that  was 
for  you,  that  idea.  If  you  don't  want  it,  why  should  an  old 
sailorman  take  the  risk  ?  No,  sir." 

His  voice  was  one  of  strenuous  honesty,  of  rectitude  mis- 
judged; and  when  the  summoned  young  Archibald  appeared 
and  had  heard  the  name  of  his  friend,  Arnold  L'Hommedieu, 
Captain  Danny  looked  expectantly  for  justice  to  be  done  him. 

Early  that  morning,  before  Archie  had  left  the  house,  he 
had  received  a  telephone  message  from  Arnold,  urging  him 
not  to  mention  his  connection  with  the  Waldemar  Drug  Com- 
pany. If  Mr.  Van  Yhroon  wanted  to  know  why  Mr.  L'Hom- 
medieu wished  to  hire  a  clipper  ship,  let  it  be  explained  that 
Arnold  was  commissioned — secretly,  of  course — to  investigate 
the  threatened  revolt  of  the  Mexicans.  .  .  .  Newspapers 
were  known  to  expend  large  sums  on  such  trifling  details,  and 
did  they  wish  to  toss  money  about,  should  Mr.  Van  Vhroon 


312  God's  Man 

object?  All  of  which  Archie  now  retailed  faithfully  when 
asked  to  vouch  for  his  friend. 

".  .  .  And  he's  the  son  of  Parson  L'Hommedieu  down 
at  Havre  de  Grace.  You  ought  to  know  him,  Uncle  Archi- 
bald," he  concluded.  "You  two  were  such  great  friends  when 
you  were  down  that  way  and  you  know  he's  the  honestest  man 
in  the  county,  .  „  .  in  the  whole  world.  And  so's  Ar- 
nold. There  never  was  such  a  chap.  I  only  wish  I  were 
going  with  him.  But  you're  not  to  let  any  one  know.  That 
would  be  a  terrible  thing  for  him,  ...  his  newspaper 
would  throw  him  out  like  that!" 

"I'll  consider  it,  then,"  said  his  uncle  gruffly.  "You  may 
go,  Archibald.  .  .  .  And  so  for  once  you  told  the  truth, 
Daniel.  I  am  surprised.  I  am  indeed.  I  must  be  careful 
or  I  shall  begin  to  believe  you  and  thereby  lose  much  money." 
Which  was  his  way,  that  gruffness  and  that  appearance  of 
suspicion,  of  proving  to  the  world  his  stern  and  acute  business 
methods.  "I  will  investigate  the  matter  and  let  you  know  to- 
morrow. .  .  ." 

Captain  Danny  knew  the  battle  was  won.  No  one  investi- 
gated less  than  old  Mr.  Van  Vhroon ;  none  had  a  firmer  belief 
in  the  integrity  of  human  nature ;  but  to  speak  gruffly  of  in- 
vestigation was  part  of  the  duty  of  a  business  man  whose 
slogan  was  "no  nonsense."  ...  On  Captain  Danny's 
exit  Mr.  Archibald  called  Gunnison,  his  head-clerk,  and  di- 
rected him  to  make  out  an  average  monthly  statement, 
founded  on  her  record  for  the  past  year,  of  the  expense  of  the 
Cormorant's  upkeep,  charges  of  loading  and  unloading  to 
be  deducted.  And  the  ancient  clerk  viewed  him  with  watery 
rheumy  eyes. 

"You  don't  think  of  disposing  of  the  •  Cormorant,  Mr. 
Archibald,  sir  ?"  he  reproached.  "I  don't  think  I  could  stand 
it  if  she  should  go,  too.  I've  stood  the  Melinda  going  and 
the  Osprey  and  the  putting  out  of  our  handsome  Coot  into 
that  filthy  guano  trade."  ...  He  spoke  as  though  he 
had  permitted  these  unreasonable  outrages  as  an  especial  favor, 


The  Blow  Falls  313 

but  that  it  was  best  not  to  try  him  too  far,  he  might  resign  and 
save  the  firm  a  few  hundreds  a  year. 

"Now,  you  let  me  hear  no  more  from  you,  Gunnison,"  said 
his  employer  severely,  "or  I  will  discharge  you  forthwith. 
Your  length  of  service  counts  nothing  with  me.  Sentiment 
can't  be  allowed  to  interfere  with  business,  and  when  we  have 
clerks  dictating  to  their  employers  it  is  time  for  them  to  part. 
.  .  .  No  nonsense  of  that  sort  goes  in  this  office."  These 
modern  business  men  could  be  no  harsher  than  that,  he 
thought,  chuckling ;  and  Gunnison,  properly  chastened — in  the 
past  decade  he  had  faced  thirty  threats  of  discharge  a  month — 
retreated  meekly  from  his  position,  and  said  he  hoped  Mr. 
Archibald  would  understand  he  had  spoken  only  because  of 
his  long  association  with  the  firm. 

"Don't  presume  on  it  again,  Gunnison,"  said  old  Mr.  Archi- 
bald. "Sentiment  counts  for  nothing  here.  You  remain  in 
my  employ  only  because  you  are  useful  to  me.  I  hope  you 
remember  that.  If  I  could  get  a  man  to  do  your  work  cheaper 
I'd  have  got  him  long  ago.  If  he  turns  up  any  day  out  you 
go.  And  there'll  be  no  use  in  your  talking  about  your  long 
association.  This  chair  I'm  sitting  on  has  had  just  as  long 
an  association,  but  I'd  sell  it  to-morrow  if  I  could  get  a  better 
one.  The  same  with  the  Cormorant.  Let  me  hear  no  more 
such  nonsense." 

Gunnison  having  departed,  the  Lunatic  coughed  somewhat 
importantly  as  one  who  has  incontrovertibly  proved  himself, 
as  usual,  a  master  logician.  While  Gunnison's  rheumy  old 
eyes  were  more  than  usually  clouded.  Even  if  the  Lunatic 
deceived  himself,  he  deceived  no  one  else. 

"Discharged  again,  Gunnison?"  asked  Archie,  grinning  as 
the  old  clerk  came  out.  Gunnison  sighed  heavily  and  stared 
at  the  Cormorant's  slim  spars  outside  Archie's  window. 

"He  didn't  used  to  be  like  that,  Mr.  Archie,  sir,"  he  ex- 
plained apologetically.  "He  began  when  he  heard  they'd 
made  fun  of  his  keeping  old  Timothy  Larkins  on.  Timmy 
was  a  cripple,  you  know.  He  was  before  your  time  here.  Mr. 


314  God's  Man 

Archibald  swore  he'd  discharge  Timmy  as  soon  as  he  could 
find  somebody  to  take  his  place — but  he  always  said  nobody 
could.  He'd  grumble  about  Timmy  and  say  his  days  in  the 
office  were  numbered.  He  would  have  a  new  man  in  the  very 
next  day.  But  Timmy  was  here  until  he  died.  .  .  ." 

Archie  was  not  listening  to  Gunnison.  All  of  his  uncle's 
eccentricities  were  long  familiar  to  him ;  all  Gunnison's  rem- 
iniscences, too;  the  old  clerk  was  likely  to  forget  and  repeat 
the  same  story  on  the  following  day.  To  him  the  peculiari- 
ties of  his  employer  were  as  novel  each  morning  as  the  latest 
news.  He  passed  on  to  re-tell  his  reminiscences  and  his  re- 
cent interview  to  a  more  appreciative  audience,  and  Archie 
continued  his  sightless  staring  and  his  wonder  as  to  Arnold's 
use  for  the  Cormorant.  It  signified  the  possession  of  money, 
that  was  certain,  much  money. 

He  was  glad,  for  old  Arnold's  sake,  that  he  had  come  out 
of  his  trance  at  last,  had  begun  to  use  his  brains  to  some  pur- 
pose instead  of  mooning  them  away  on  that  writing  of  his 
that  would  never  bring  in  enough  to  live  like  a  gentleman. 
And  what  was  the  use  of  living,  else  ?  But  Arnold  had  such 
queer  ideas.  He  had  had  them,  too,  when  he  was  younger 
(one  might  have  imagined  he  was  looking  back  from  a  ripe 
old  age),  but  thank  Heaven,  he  had  met  the  right  sort  of  a 
little  girl,  and  she  had  shown  him  what  was  what.  .  .  . 
Look  at  The  Good  Old  Rabbit,  her  father,  how  rich  he  had  be- 
come through  putting  his  little  brains  to  the  proper  use. 
While  Arnold,  with  forty  times  as  many,  had  nothing  to 
show.  But  since  old  Waldemar  had  taken  him  up,  he  must 
have  seen  how  silly  he'd  been  or  the  Old  Geezer  wouldn't  have 
such  great  faith  in  him  as  to  let  him  go  about  hiring  full- 
rigged  ships.  .  .  .  Again  he  wondered  for  what  the  Cor- 
morant was  wanted.  At  all  events,  Arnold  must  have  "some 
salary"  to  be  trusted  that  much.  No  doubt  he  had  saved 
money.  Too  bad  he  had  not  realized  this  a  few  months  be- 
fore. There  never  would  be  another  chance  like  Instantane- 


The  Blow  Falls  315 

ous  Boiler.  Now,  of  course,  there  was  no  great  profit  in  buy- 
ing it — although,  if  it  kept  on,  who  could  tell? 

There  were  few  moments  in  the  day  when  Archie  did  not 
think  of  Instantaneous  Boiler.  It  meant  his  whole  future. 
Carol,  poor  dear  girl,  was  tired  of  waiting  forever ;  who  could 
blame  her !  She  wanted  a  home  of  her  own,  where  she  could 
do  as  she  pleased ;  where  she  would  not  be  dragged  about  and 
shown  off  to  every  eligible  young  man.  She  had  a  right  to  be 
impatient  with  him.  Look  at  The  Good  Old  Eabbit !  He  didn't 
take  years  to  find  the  Big  Thing.  And  there  were  hundreds 
of  Big  Things  if  Archie  would  only  bestir  himself  instead 
of  spending  so  much  time  in  that  stupid  office  of  his  uncle's 
which  would  never  yield  sufficient  to  permit  marriage  even 
though  they  lived  in  Harlem,  out  in  the  suburbs  or  in  some 
other  impossible  place.  Archie  should  be  down  in  the  Street 
looking  out  for  Big  Things.  He  had  been  looking,  in  his 
leisure,  but  that  was  not  enough;  he  should  resign  from  his 
uncle's  and  devote  his  entire  time  to  it.  The  Good  Old  Eab- 
bit would  take  him  into  his  office.  True,  he  would  not  pay 
him  much,  but  he  would  be  on  the  spot.  Archie  had  con- 
tinual difficulty  in  making  Carol  understand  that  he  was  not 
an  only  son.  And  in  a  country  without  laws  of  entail  what 
would  prevent  a  displeased  father  from  disinheriting  his  eld- 
est son?  Some  younger  brother  would  be  Hartogensis  of 
Exmoor  should  he  venture  to  flout  Squire  Hartogensis'  wishes. 

However,  he  had  been  dabbling.  The  Good  Old  Eabbit  had 
given  him  several  minor  tips,  cautioning  him,  however,  not 
to  invest  too  heavily.  He  had  lost  on  one  and  gained  on  the 
other.  But  Carol  was  a  luxury,  as  Arnold  had  observed — 
restaurant  bills  for  herself  and  chaperon,  taxi-bills,  flower- 
bills,  bills  for  hired  motors  to  take  them  down  on  Long  Island 
to  various  "Chateaux"  and  into  Westchester  to  divers  "Inns" ; 
costliest  of  all,  losses  at  bridge  and  huge  tips  to  servants  at 
week-end  parties  among  richer  friends.  To  refuse  to  play 
bridge  was  worse  than  not  being  able  to  turkey-trot — one  was 


316  God's  Man 

never  invited  again.  All  these  expenses  of  keeping  Carol  in 
eight  had  placed  an  extremely  large  minus  sign  where  his 
winnings  on  that  one  tip  should  have  been — a  minus  sign  that 
took  in  a  large  share  of  his  puny  capital.  ...  So  when 
Instantaneous  Boiler  had  shown  its  dazzling  head  on  his 
horizon  Archie  had  not  hesitated.  "One"  must  not  hesitate 
when  the  Big  Thing  came  along;  "one"  never  got  another 
chance  if  "one"  did,  and  if  "one"  did  not  believe  this,  "one" 
insulted  Carol. 

So  that,  on -this  particular  mornng  when  the  second  post 
brought  an  envelope  with  the  name  by  which  his  Big  Thing 
was  known  to  the  public,  Archie  thought  again  of  old  Arnold 
and  what  he  had  missed.  Xo  doubt  this  was  to  advise  him 
of  a  ten-point  rise  in  the  public  estimation  of  The  Wonderful 
Lamp.  Archie  and  other  Aladdins  had  received  numbers  of 
such  notifications  and  had  found  more  money  to  invest.  His 
poor  old  lunatic  uncle  disbelieved  in  such  things;  but  he 
should  be  assisted  whether  he  willed  it  or  not  and  the  firm 
tided  over  its  present  difficulties.  Presently,  when  Instantane- 
ous Boiler  reached  par,  he  would  sell  and  become  the  benefac- 
tor of  the  firm.  Then  his  underrating  father,  hearing  of  this 
great  success,  would  admit  that  such  financial  genius  was 
smothered  in  so  unprogressive  a  firm. 

And  so  smiling  he  opened  Mr.  Mink's  plaintive  wail  to  the 
stockholders  of  Instantaneous  Boiler.  .  .  , 

II.  ARNOLD  GIVES  UP  THE  FIGHT 

It  was  past  noon  the  next  day  before  Arnold  found  himself 
alone  and  free  to  set  out  for  Clabber's,  half  of  Captain  Danny's 
smuggled  goods  in  the  box  beside  the  taxi-driver.  "When  it 
had  been  lugged  up-stairs  by  grinning  Boy  Xumber  One  and 
a  blue-robed  menial,  Clabber,  true  to  his  word,  but  not  until 
a  number  of  cans  had  been  sampled  and  approved,  passed  over 
the  money.  It  was  in  hundred-dollar  bills. 

"Whenever  you  get  more  of  the  sameth,"  he  said, 


The  Blow  Falls  317 

know  where  to  cometh,  hey  ?  And  I  pay  you  as  much  as  any- 
body, and  take  more.  .  .  ." 

Arnold  repressed  with  difficulty  the  inclination  to  sound 
him  concerning  Captain  Danny's  scheme.  But  why  raise  ex- 
pectations that  could  not  be  realized?  Had  he  not  definitely 
abandoned  that  iniquitous  idea?  He  went  off  hurriedly,  de- 
posited his  money  and  returned  to  Beeckman  Place  to  carry 
the  second  consignment  to  Apricott. 

There  he  found,  awaiting  him,  a  note  from  Captain  Danny. 
It  told  briefly  of  his  success  in  securing  the  Cormorant  for 
the  cruise — as  for  the  probable  terms,  he  gave  them,  adding 
that  he  would  be  around  again  at  the  dinner-hour.  "He  won't 
find  me,"  thought  Arnold,  feeling  grimly  victorious.  He 
would  be  dining  in  Havre  de  Grace  to-night.  .  .  .  But, 
as  he  tore  up  the  note,  he  heard  the  whir  of  a  taxi  outside,  and 
through  the  hall  curtains  saw  Hugo  pay  the  driver,  Archie 
standing  by  limp  and  despondent. 

Arnold  opened  the  door.  "Don't  let  your  taxi  go,  boys,"  he 
warned.  "I  can't  be  with  you  more  than  ten  minutes.  Im- 
portant business.  That's  my  taxi — the  other  one." 

Hugo  looked  up:  something  sinister  in  his  glance  alarmed 
Arnold.  "You'd  better  let  him  go,  then,"  said  Hugo.  "You've 
got  no  business  as  important  as  we've  got.  Here" — he  ad- 
dressed Arnold's  driver — "how  much  is  it  ?" — and  gave  him  a 
bill.  The  two  taxis  backed  and  barked  and  birred  away. 
"Come  on,  Arch,"  said  Hugo  kindly,  putting  an  affectionate 
arm  about  his  friend.  "Come  on,  old  boy."  The  big  fellow 
had  all  the  tenderness  of  a  woman  in  his  voice. 

Arnold,  conscious  of  impending  disaster,  led  them  into  a 
room  overlooking  the  river,  his  lounge  and  library.  Outside 
the  sky  was  dark  and  threatening :  the  tide  ran  high  and  boats 
strained  at  their  moorings.  True,  it  had  been  gloomy  and 
threatening  all  day,  but  when  one  seeks  for  dismal  signs,  it 
is  not  hard  to  find  them. 

Again  Arnold  had  that  queer  helpless  feeling  of  one  who 
must  combat  circumstances.  The  face  of  the  peninsula 


318  God's  Man 

philosopher  seemed  to  rise  up  again  and  mock  him.  -  .  . 
He  turned,  his  look  somber,  and  saw  Hugo  lock  the  door ;  nor 
did  he  say  anything  to  console  the  miserable  Archie  who  had 
dropped  into  a  chair,  head  on  hands,  elbows  on  knees,  face 
dark  and  despairing.  Hugo  cleared  his  throat,  lit  a  cigar, 
tossed  it  away,  and  took  down  one  of  Arnold's  pipes. 

"Oh— go  on,  Arch,"  he  said  suddenly,  "tell  him."  But  the 
heap  of  misery  in  the  chair  only  groaned.  "Oh — hell,"  said 
Hugo.  "Well— look  here,  Arnold— Archie.  .  .  ." 

He  plunged  into  the  wretched  story  of  Instantaneous  Boiler, 
Archie  punctuating  it  with  occasional  oaths,  groans  and  de- 
sires for  death.  When  the  tale  was  told,  Arnold  turned  from 
Archie,  his  look  one  of  terror,  dismay,  anger,  hatred.  A  gull ! 
— the  easiest  sort  of  a  gull;  so  greedy  for  wealth  he  could  not 
earn,  that  he  had  been  taken  in  by  the  most  transparent  of 
fakes.  And  all  to  gratify  a  silly  chit  of  a  girl,  snobbish,  ig- 
norant, worthless — far  inferior  to  the  girl  whom  Arnold  had 
gent  away  that  morning  and  to  whom,  probably,  she  would 
consider  herself  vastly  superior  because  of  a  purely  technical 
virtue — and  this  was  the  price  of  that  virtue :  the  ruin  of  him 
rho  could  not  afford  to  buy  it.  ...  Worst  of  all,  there 
was  nothing  to  be  done.  The  swindlers  back  of  Instantaneous 
Boiler  knew  the  law,  knew  how  to  circumvent  it,  had  given 
their  swindling  that  farcical  legal  aspect  which  would  pre- 
vent any  criminal  action  being  taken.  And  Hugo  had  no 
money.  .  .  . 

"You  see,  Arnold,"  he  added,  uneasy  under  Arnold's  chilly 
stare.  "My  Gov.'s  shut  down.  I'm  in  his  black  books.  Drew 
bills  against  him  for  that  damned  show  I  backed,  and  he's 
published  me  in  the  papers  saying  he's  not  responsible  for  any 
more  of  my  debts.  Look  here !" — and  he  drew  some  clippings 
from  his  pockets.  "And  here's  his  letter.  I'm  'to  keep  within 
my  allowance' — 'not  a  cent  over' — and  if  I'm  not  at  the  office 
hereafter,  I'll  be  docked  for  every  day  I  stay  away  more  than 
two  hours !  A  pretty  go,  ain't  it  ? — why,  Bobbie  owes  Madame 


The  Blow  Falls  319 

Judith  nearly  seven  thousand  for  hats  and  frocks  and  furs. 
Her  bill  ain't  been  paid  for  nearly  two  years  and  she's  threat- 
enin'  to  sue — that's  only  one.  If  he'd  only  let  me  marry 
her/'  he  groaned;  "she  was  so  careful  not  to  run  into  debt 
when  she  thought  we  were  going  to  be  married!  "Wanted  to 
begin  saving  for  the  kids.  Poor  old  Bobs ! — of  course  we 
couldn't  have  any  when  we  weren't  regularly  doubled  up. 
And,  say,  you've  got  no  idea  how  she  wanted  a  kid,  marriage 
or  not.  But  I  put  my  foot  down  on  that.  'Twouldn't  be  fair 
to  the  Tddf  I  said—" 

For  the  first  time,  Archie  showed  some  animation.  "To 
hell  with  you"  he  interrupted  violently.  "Are  you  looking 
suicide  in  the  face  ?  Well,  then,  shut  up — I  am.  Look  here, 
Arnold,  I've  got  to  have  that  money.  If  the  Dad  has  to  sell 
property  to  make  good  to  Uncle  Archie,  it's  good-by  to  my 
ever  having  Exmoor.  If  Mr.  Waldemar  trusts  you  so  much 
he  lets  you  go  about  hiring  ships,  you  can  get  all  the  money 
you  want  on  trust.  And  there  won't  be  a  chance  of  me  not 
paying  it  back.  The  Dad's  got  to  die  some  day.  And  it'll  be 
a  good  investment.  Mr.  Waldemar  can't  get  a  hundred  per 
cent,  every  day,  can  he  ?  I'll  pay  it.  I'll  pay  anything — only 
get  it  for  me,  Arnold,  get  it  for  me.  .  .  .  It's  only  five 
thousand  and  I'll  kill  myself  if  I  don't  get  it — I  might  just 
as  well.  I've  lost  Carol — she  won't  wait  forever.  I've  lost 
my  mother's  ten  thousand.  Now  if  I  lose  Exmoor,  what've  I 
got  to  live  for  ?  Just  stay  here  and  be  a  clerk  all  my  life  ?  I 
won't  do  it,  Arnold,  I'll  kill  myself !  I  will  I  tell  you,  I  will !" 

"I  can  raise  two  or  three  thousand,  Arnold,"  said  Hugo. 
"There's  my  pearls — studs  and  waist-coat  buttons  and  links. 
And  my  sapphire — pin  and  links,  and  this  ring  with  two  big 
stones.  And  this  watch  cost  fifteen  hundred" —  he  took  it 
out,  a  thing  as  thin  as  the  half  of  a  soda-biscuit.  "I'd  ask 
Bobbie  to  let  me  use  her  junk,  too,  just  for  the  time,  but  it's 
going  to  be  tough  enough  when  she  hears  about  the  Governor 
shutting  down,  poor  old  Bobs.  .  .  ." 


320  God's  Man 

"A— w,"  snarled  Archie.  "Why  don't  you  make  her?  A 
fine  girl,  won't  help  you  out  when  you're  in  trouble."  .  .  . 
Which  angered  even  the  peaceable  Hugo. 

"Well,  then,  how  about  your  own  girl?"  he  shot  back  an- 
grily. "She's  got  jewelry,  hasn't  she? — and  her  father's  got 
money,  ain't  he  ?  Why  shouldn't  she  help  you  ?" 

"I'll  tell  you  why/'  said  Arnold  coldly.  "Because  Carol 
Caton  would  throw  him  down  one  minute  after  she  thought 
there  was  no  chance  of  him  making  good."  He  snapped  his 
fingers  and  pushed  Archie  back  in  his  chair.  "Don't  try  to 
act"  he  advised,  his  tone  frigid.  "Carol's  the  last  person  in 
the  world  you'd  ask  and  you  know  it.  You've  ruined  yourself 
over  her;  but  that's  what  American  men  are  made  for.  If 
they  can't  cheat  or  steal  enough  to  make  money,  they  aren't 
worthy  of  our  pure  American  women,"  he  added  savagely, 
thinking,  to  tell  the  truth,  far  more  of  Velvet  Voice  than 
Carol.  "What  starts  most  of  this  graft  and  dishonesty? 
'Dearie'  wants  a  motor-car  like  Mrs.  Blank's.  'Dearie'  wants 
to  move  into  a  better  neighborhood.  'Dearie'  must  dress  like 
Mrs.  Dash,  must  go  to  Europe  like  Mrs.  Dot,  must  take  a 
summer-place  like  Mrs.  Dumb.  'Dearie' — damn  Dearie — the 
whipping-post  for  fDearie'  And  then  they  talk  about  the 
coarse  men  who  do  the  coarse  work  that  gets  the  coarse  money 
that  buys  their  delicate  refined  good-breeding !  Why,  we're  a 
joke,  we  American  men !  .  .  .  Now — shut  up !"  he  warned 
Archie  again.  "We  don't  want  to  hear  anything  from  you 
about  how  unworthy  we  men  are  of  sweet  lovely  womanhood. 
It's  a  lie.  We're  their  superiors,  always  have  been,  always 
will  be.  If  s  men  like  you  who  give  them  their  fool  ideas,  you 
and  the  cheap  novels  and  'thoughtful'  plays.  When  women 
get  real  men,  they're  willing  enough  to  acknowledge  it — " 

He  paused  for  want  of  breath.  He  was  violently  angry. 
Ever  since  he  had  first  conceived  his  smuggling  scheme  in 
Clabber's  bunk,  he  had  felt  instinctively  that  somehow,  he 
would  be  forced  into  it.  Now  he  looked  back,  it  seemed  that 
his  life  for  the  last  five  years  had  been  planned  toward  that 


The  Blow  Falls  321 

end.  He  was  like  a  pawn  in  the  clutch  of  an  automatic  chess- 
player. 

The  whole  thing  had  the  semblance  of  a  Greek  tragedy  in 
its  disregard  for  human  desires. 

Ever  since  their  expulsion  from  Old  King's  University  some 
malign  influence  had  driven  each  one  of  them  into  lives  for- 
eign to  those  they  had  planned,  alien  to  their  natures ;  until 
Archie  was  now  a  betrayer  of  trust;  Hugo  was  pointed  out 
as  an  unenviable  example  of  gilded  youth,  advertised  by  his 
father  as  a  prodigal ;  Arnold,  the  employee  of  a  wholesale  poi- 
soner, himself  a  potential  criminal.  And  The  Jinx,  in  whose 
cause  they  had  interfered,  had  turned  out  a  blackmailer  for 
all  their  pains ! 

The  silly  waste  of  it!  "Purpose ?"— and  his  thoughts 
turned  to  the  peninsula  philosopher  again — a  fine  one  truly. 
At  this  rate,  the  "Purpose"  would  not  be  satisfied  until  they 
were  all  three  in  the  electric-chair.  A  mad  recklessness  seized 
him.  What  use  to  combat  it,  then?  Have  the  worst  over. 
Evidently,  if  there  was  such  a  "Purpose/7  if  the  Orientals 
were  right  about  their  "Kismet,"  it  did  not  intend  he  should 
be  decent.  Had  it  not  checked  all  his  attempts  in  that  di- 
rection? And,  now,  when  he  had  deliberately  rejected  an 
easy  road  to  wealth  sooner  than  follow  in  the  wake  of  Wal- 
demar's  poisoning — rejected  it  knowing  it  might  bring  him, 
perhaps,  all  his  heart  desired — along  came  this  catastrophe, 
this  cataclysm !  And  the  good  and  great  "Purpose"  had  seen 
to  it  that  Hugo  should  be  penniless  when  it  came — an  unprec- 
edented thing! 

Now  if  he  still  continued  in  his  rejection,  the  least  that 
could  happen  was  Archie's  suicide.  Why  not,  if  the  boy  lost 
everything — good  name,  girl,  inheritance  ?  And  Arnold  would 
know  he  could  have  saved  him — and  at  the  cost  of  what? — 
a  few  silly  scruples !  It  was  nonsense  to  say  Waldemar  was 
a  poisoner:  if  he  didn't  do  it,  some  one  would.  People  sold 
poisons  and  adulterated  food,  grafted,  stole  franchises,  bought 


322  God's  Man 

legislators,  paid  gunmen  to  repeat  at  elections,  floated  "phony" 
stocks,  made  politics  and  business  filthy,  and  life  a  menace 
to  the  honest  man,  a  cruel  taskmaster  to  the  poor  one — all  be- 
cause somebody  else  would  if  they  wouldn't. 

Well,  let  them.  He  couldn't  change  it — the  concomitant 
to  that  first  bit  of  self-deceit  as  he  knew  well  enough.  But 
why  make  one's  self  miserable?  The  big  financiers  had  the 
right  idea:  they  made  their  millions,  then  built  libraries,  en- 
dowed hospitals  and  colleges,  gave  great  sums  to  science  to  im- 
prove conditions.  That  was  the  only  way.  The  fools  that 
suffered  had  the  remedy  in  their  own  hands,  but  they  preferred 
to  be  slapped  on  the  back,  to  be  bought  drinks,  given  picnics 
and  free  beer — their  foolish  ideas  of  equality  encouraged.  Sup- 
port an  honest  man  who  told  them  the  truth? — a  snob  who 
thought  he  was  "better  than  they"?  Why  should  he  bother 
about  such  cattle  when  they  didn't  bother  about  themselves  ? 

Guiltily,  he  knew  he  was  repeating  now  every  one  of  the 
sophistries.  Arnold,  now,  was  like  the  man  in  an  icy  sea 
who,  although  upheld  by  a  life-preserver,  deliberately  drowns 
rather  than  endure  the  intolerable  cold — or  one  hanging  above 
an  abyss  who  finds  the  thought  of  death  less  painful  than 
lacerated  hands  and  straining  muscles.  Like  them,  Arnold 
had  reached  the  limit  of  endurance.  Archie  might  not  kill 
himself,  might  not;  but  Arnold  knew  such  excitable,  hysterical 
natures  too  well.  And  Arnold's  own  life  was  not  tolerable 
enough  to  add  to  it  the  thought  that  he  had  permitted  his 
friend  to  pass  out  when  he  might  have  saved  him. 

He  raised  his  eyes,  realizing  that  the  gaze  of  Archie  and 
Hugo  was  fixed  upon  him,  just  as  in  the  old  days  when  some 
important  question  had  been  left  to  his  decision.  He  had 
always  taken  responsibility  seriously,  had  Arnold. 

But  what  a  different  Archie  from  those  days :  eyes  sunken 
and  bloodshot,  strained  face  that  seemed  thin  for  all  its  plump 
cheeks,  so  drawn  was  it  about  eyes  and  mouth,  while  his  hands 
twitched  abominably.  And  Hugo  was  as  earnest  and  as 


The  Blow  Falls  323 

anxious,  as  sorrowful  and  as  pitying,  as  some  great  St.  Ber- 
nard dog  viewing  a  frozen  wayfarer  too  heavy  for  his  aid. 

"When  must  you  have  the  money?"  asked  Arnold.  Archie 
began  to  babble  of  bills  due,  possible  extensions.  .  .  .  Ar- 
nold cut  him  short.  "The  last  possible  minute  before  any- 
body knows — your  uncle  even — three  months  ?"  he  demanded 
coldly.  "Come  on,  Archie,  speak  up.  Can  you  manage  with- 
out it  for  three  months  ?  You  say  you  handle  all  the  cash." 

But  Archie  seemed  dazed  by  the  prospect  of  salvation.  He 
began  incoherent  rhapsodies.  He  sold  himself  into  eternal 
slavery  to  Arnold,  ceased  to  be  except  as  his  appanage,  cata- 
logued the  incredible  services  he  would  perform  for  this  su- 
perman friend  of  his.  Hugo,  too,  stuttered  out  a  sort  of  dog- 
like  wondering  gratitude. 

"Come,"  said  Arnold  impatiently.  "Can  you  hold  out  for 
three  months,  Archie?  Answer  me.  .  .  .  You  can? 
Good."  He  unlocked  the  door,  raised  his  voice  and  called  for 
Quinn  to  telephone  for  another  taxicab :  "And  put  that  Ap- 
ricott  box  on  it  when  it  comes.  .  .  ." 

"While  we're  waiting  for  it,"  he  said  to  the  two  anxious 
ones,  closing  the  door  as  he  spoke,  "I'll  tell  you  why  I  need 
three  months.  And  why  I'm  going  to  let  you  pawn  your 
jewelry,  Hugo.  But  don't  be  afraid :  you'll  be  able  to  redeem 
it  and  to  pay  your  half  toward  getting  Archie  out  of  this  trou- 
ble besides.  No  gamble,  no  speculation" — he  looked  coldly  at 
Archie — "no  chance — for  me.  This  is  certain — sure.  That 
is  unless  you  let  the  cat  out.  And  so,  before  I  tell  you,  you'll 
have  to  swear  by  everything  sacred  you  won't  tell  anybody — 
not  anybody.  .  .  ." 

Alas  for  drama! — here  was  the  most  dramatic  situation,  so 
far,  in  the  lives  of  any  of  them;  yet  the  best  words  Arnold 
could  summon  up  to  impose  secrecy  were  equally  suited  to 
some  boyish  trifle.  Nor  had  Archie  maintained  his  tragic  atti- 
tude— his  burden  now  rested  on  Arnold's  shoulders,  and  he 
was  only  keenly  curious — while  Arnold  felt  strangely  elated 


324  God's  Man 

and  thrilled,  such  is  the  unruly  instinct  in  all  of  us.  Once 
we  have  stilled,  or  definitely  disregarded,  customs,  conven- 
tions and  conscience,  we  are,  for  the  moment,  as  those  drunk 
with  heady  wine.  .  .  . 

And  so  his  eyes  sparkled  as  he  told  them  of  the  fortune  that 
lay  waiting  in  far-off  Yucatan.     .    .    . 


CHAPTER    TWO 

BEBELLION 
THE  INN  CLAIMS  ARNOLD  FOR  ITS  OWN 

CHILLY  night,  a  foretaste  of 
winter,  might  have  made  advisa- 
ble the  heavy  rough  great-coat 
Arnold  donned  before  setting  out 
[for  the  Inn.  But  aside  from  any 
!  question  of  warmth,  Arnold  was 
glad  of  an  excuse  to  turn  up  that 
huge  storm-collar;  and  to  turn 
down  that  soft  felt  hat.  Many 
of  his  father's  friends,  and  his 
mother's  relatives,  held  to  their 
old-fashioned  homes  in  Washing- 
ton Square ;  their  rear  walls  over- 
looking Eupert  Passage.  And, 

possibly,  policemen  might  wonder  how  one  might  be  reputable 
and  still  visit  so  disreputable  a  place. 

Hence  he  came  into  the  Inn  courtyard,  skulking  and 
scowling:  hesitating  at  the  flat  marble  stoop,  and  squeaking 
out  his  address  to  the  high-collared  young  Hebrew;  who, 
whereupon,  gave  himself  some  languidity  of  demeanor. 

"Mr.  E.  Apricott,"  repeated  Arnold  more  confidently.  "Mr. 
Waldemar's  secretary — the  Waldemar  Manufacturing  Com- 
pany, you  know/' 
"Not  me,"  returned  he  of  the  very  high-collar,  virtuously. 


326  God's  Man 

And  began  to  smooth  down  the  very  low  vest,  and  the  very 
loud  shirt,  and  to  readjust  the  very  thin  tie — all  faithful 
copies  of  Fourteenth  Street  window-dressers'  models  for  "natty 
men."  "Sure  you  got  the  right  place?" 

Arnold  was  impatiently  sure. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  soothed  Jacob  Faithful. 

He  turned  to  the  grille,  the  shutter  of  which  had  been  up 
ever  since  the  hideous  ringing  of  the  shop-bell ;  Mother's  bead- 
like  eyes  unblinkingly  and  unfavorably  regarding  her  satellite. 

"Never  heard  of  no  such  person,"  he  said.  Desiring,  how- 
ever, to  extend  his  study  of  the  long  slender  knot  and  broad 
flowing  folds  of  a  Spitalsfield  scarf — revealed  by  the  unfasten- 
ing of  Arnold's  coat,  the  high-collared  young  Hebrew  assumed 
a  benevolent  but  bepuzzled  expression. 

"Jest  spell  it,  will  ya  ?  Maybe  ya  pull  it  wrong !" 

"Why — "  began  Arnold  in  high  exasperation,  then  laughed, 
understandingly.  "It's  all  right/'  his  tone  the  tone  of  one  who 
has  decided  to  allow  a  noisy  insect  to  live  a  little  longer.  "You 
take  that  in  to  Mr.  Apricott." 

He  had  searched  for  and  had  found  his  card-case,  on  the 
plain  flat  surface  of  which  were  initials  in  dark  blue  enamel. 
On  these  the  eyes  of  Sir  High-Collar  feasted  greedily. 

"No  more  of  these  here  fancy  monograms,  hey?"  he  asked 
and  assured  himself — to  himself.  But  what  he  said  aloud 
was :  "No  such  person  I  ever  heard  of,  ain't  I  telling  you,"  me- 
chanically. 

He  found  what  he  considered  an  artful  outlet  for  sartorial 
excitement  in  a  continuous  performance  with  the  now-despised 
wispy  tie.  To  the  searching  eye,  this  was  absolute  proof  of 
nerves.  No  mathematical  calculation,  no  square  and  compass, 
could  have  placed  it  in  a  position  more  truly  central. 

Arnold,  noticing  the  oblique  and  almost  clinical  examina- 
tion of  the  blue  enamel — but  misunderstanding  the  motive, 
produced,  swiftly,  pencil  and  seal  combined,  cigarette-holder, 
and  other  golden  reminders  of  past  Christmases — indicating 
the  initials  on  each,  again  indicating  the  card. 


Rebellion  327 

"A.  L.  H.— A.  L.  H.  .  .  .  Arnold  L'Hommedieu— 
now  take  it  in,  will  you  ?" 

The  shutter  was  raised  an  inch  or  so ;  the  beady  eyes  behind 
it  beamed. 

"Gimme,  then,"  said  the  walking  clinic,  loftily  reconsider- 
ing :  "I  don't  know,  Mis'  Mybus  might,  though/'  He  took  the 
card  and  disappeared,  first,  however,  eying  wistfully  a  cig- 
arette-holder Arnold  was  shaking  from  a  little  gold  box,  in 
such  a  way  as  to  elongate  it,  one  like  a  miniature  drinking- 
cup.  The  fitting-in  and  lighting  served  to  steady  Arnold's 
nerves,  so  that,  when  a  head  in  a  high  collar  emerged  from 
the  hutch,  nodding  solemnly,  our  hero  made  a  more  effective 
entrance  into  its  interior  than  into  the  Inn  itself.  At  their 
accustomed  posts,  needles  flashing  in  the  firelight — a  fore- 
finger flagellating  his  knee — fawning,  frowning,  were  the  fat 
woman  and  her  endless  knitting,  the  blind  man  and  his  end- 
less prophecies. 

"Sit  down,  young  man,"  said  Mother  Mybus,  and  studied 
him  for  the  profit  she  had  prophesied  he  was  to  bring  some 
day. 

What  a  face  and  figure  for  the  "boats" ;— what  a  "steerer" 
for  the  "pay-off" — or  the  "wire."  She  brought  her  bright 
black  beads  to  bear  on  an  expected  weakness  but  found  none. 

Then  Apricott  entered  pulling  down  his  cuffs,  plainly  at- 
tired in  some  haste ;  plainly  puzzling  over  Arnold's  presence — 
the  young  gentleman  had  only  to  write  and  old  Mitt-and-a- 
Half  would  have  been  glad  to  call  .  .  .  voicing  this,  abat- 
ing the  usual  banalaties ;  the  while  drawing  together  his  brows 
until  their  apex  was  as  pointed  as  the  sharpest  yen-hok  in 
his  attic. 

"You  can  speak  out  before  Mother,  and  this  is  Mr.  Nich- 
olas Tremkin,  sir.  And  he's  all  right,  too"  .  .  .  the 
"sir"  slipping  out,  a  candid  concession;  valuable  because  old 
Mitt-and-a-Half  seldom  made  it. 

Still  Arnold  hesitated. 

"They're  all  right  f  ain't  I  telling  you.   Anyhow,  there's 


328  God's  Man 

nowhere  else  to  talk.  .  .  ."  "Good  Fellow"  or  not,  no 
stranger  entered  the  Attic  unimplicated. 

Arnold's  mind  seemed  benumbed,  incapable  or  unwilling  to 
do  more  than  sense  the  color  and  count  the  number  of  red 
ocher  bricks  in  the  Antwerp  flooring,  the  brown  and  tawny 
panels  of  the  old  oak  walls,  the  blue  and  white  tiling  of  the 
Amsterdam  fireplace.  And  to  wonder  at  their  association 
with  such  folks  as  he  of  the  Cubist  face,  triangular,  hard, 
sour,  he  whose  hand  of  the  missing  fingers  twitched  on  a  black 
cheviot  knee.  And  diagonally  opposite,  him  of  the  sightless 
eyes  and  useless  lenses  framed  in  expensive  tortoise-shell — 
whose  hand  of  the  long  black  premier  digit  wrote  on  a  brown 
serge  knee.  But  he  wondered  most  about  that  human  sack 
which,  uncorded,  would  send  the  Cormorant  south — her  of 
the  fat  rat  face,  with  eyes  like  an  ancient  mouse — her  very 
appearance  was  a  misdemeanor ! 

Arnold's  hesitancy,  however,  had  been  due  to  no  fear  of  be- 
trayal :  his  listeners  were  too  greedy  not  to  be  trustworthy.  It 
was  another  qualm,  another  thought  of  that  family  name  to 
be  jeopardized  for  the  first  time  in  two  centuries  or  more. 
Allied  with  that  of  the  wickedest  old  woman  in  New  York. 
Was  it  worth  while?  Was  he  justified? 

But  what  was  to  become  of  Archie  if  he  did  not?  How  was 
he,  Arnold,  to  win  Velvet  Voice  ?  At  such  times,  one  is  shorn 
of  self-deception.  Arnold  knew,  now,  that  all  the  time,  and, 
even  at  her  own  valuation,  he  had  wanted  Velvet  Voice.  Had 
wanted  her  so  much  that  he  was  willing  to  buy  her.  He  knew, 
too,  what  he  was :  a  hypocrite  like  all  the  rest — Waldemar,  the 
Squire,  yes,  even  Quiwers — wasn't  he  glad  of  an  excuse  to 
get  her  price:  somehow — anyhow?  And  at  the  cost  of  his 
self-respect.  .  .  .  Archie,  eh?  Archie,  Tiell — Arnold,  Ar- 
nold! AKNOLD! 

"I've  got  some  thousands  of  dollars'  worth  of  opium  out- 
side," he  suddenly  affirmed  with  startling  calm.  Apricott  in- 
tervened, snarling  and  snapping  over  the  recklessness  that  left 
unguarded  so  much  virgin  gold.  Disregarding  the  bill  Arnold 


Rebellion  329 

held  out  to  pay  the  driver,  Apricott  hastily  quitted  the  room; 
returning  presently,  an  incompetent  expressman,  staggering 
under  an  incomparable  box.  But,  unlike  an  expressman,  he 
deposited  it  gently  and  approached  the  prying-off  of  its  lid 
almost  prayerfully. 

Meanwhile,  Mother  touched  Nikko's  knee.  The  blind  man 
burst  into  weird  mirth. 

"Growing,  growing — always  growing/'  he  chuckled. 
"Slowly,  but  surely.  Ha ! — -Petra  Borisovna,"  and  he  rubbed 
his  thin  fingers  together,  swearing  the  Slavonic  calendar  out 
of  saints,  and  concluding  with  a  masterpiece : 

".  .  .  by  St.  Nicholas  and  the  skull  of  Christ.  He  hates 
the  filthy  money-swine  too,  an  aristocrat,  a  leader.  Leaders 
are  all  we  need.  Mobs  obey  aristocrats  .  .  .  have  I  not 
always  told  you  officers  must  be  noble?  Animals  need  train- 
ers— but  kind  trainers,  Petra — not  cruel  knouters.  Blind 
folk  have  the  best  eyes !  They  see  inside.  .  .  ." 

"Blind? — you?"  she  returned  sharply.  "And  yesterday 
beheld  the  Doctor's  dark  purple  scarf?  Thou  wouldst  lose  the 
blessed  Sophia  her  sanctity.  With  a  loyar's  eyeshells,  glossy 
as  a  blackbird."  .  .  . 

The  simile  was  sheer  animalism,  nothing  more.  Just  as  she 
had  poetized  greedily  over  sweetmeats  when  younger,  she  now 
seemed  able  to  find  similar  lip-smacking  qualities  in  any 
object  of  cost — and  like  Hugo — like  all  interminably  inarticu- 
late races — Slavs  certainly  could  symbolize  crudely  but  ec- 
statically. 

"Listen  I" — interrupted  Apricott,  indicating  Arnold  and  his 
polite  but  strained  silence. 

"Well."    .     .     .     Arnold  began. 

Eevolutionists  and  rebel  and  rogue,  all  were  equally  atten- 
tive to  this  manifestly  likable  young  gentleman;  so  attract- 
ively appareled,  too.  Mother's  eyes  glistened  with  malice 
and  moisture,  Apricott  ceased  burrowing  in  the  opened  box 
and  began  to  fondle  something.  Nikko  smiled  contentedly. 
Since  "Mr.  Arnold"  had  accepted  Apricott's  thousand-dollar 


330  God's  Man 

"bonus — we  had  hoped  he  would  array  himself — profitably — 
against  the  law — openly  rebel,  Nlkko  put  it. 

Now  that  this  had  happened,  their  expectations  were  more 
than  fulfilled.  Xo  empty  boasts.  "The  goods !" 

"I  think  you  know  what  you  talk  about,  Mr.  Arnold,"  said 
Mother  slowly.  "I  think  you  know.  But  I  don't  know.  I 
hear  much  of  you  from  Mr.  Pink  and  Mr.  Beau  and  that  Bad 
Little  Frog!  they  think  you  know  too.  .  •  .  .  But  they 
don't  know.  .  .  .  Why  you  come  to  ignorant  low  peasant 
peoples,  Mr.  Arnold  ?  Why  not  to  your  rich  friends  ?" 

"Because  it's  against  the  law,"  returned  Arnold,  too  heavy  of 
heart  to  be  epigrammatically  satirical.  "And  my  rich  friends 
don't  do  things  against  the  law.  They  may  change  it  or  cheat 
it  or  get  poorer  people  to  take  the  chances.  And  I'm  not  tak- 
ing chances  for  the  fun  of  it,  Mrs.  Mybus.  I  can  offer  you 
half  the  profits  for  all  the  expenses ;  without  getting  a  laugh. 
My  inside  information  against  your  illegitimate  cash.  Which 
gives  me  my  own  illegitimate  profits  clear.  I'm  only  going  to 
invest  the  money  you  pay  me  for  what's  there.  .  .  ." 

He  indicated  the  hox — or,  rather,  a  sunken  barge  in  a  sea 
of  excelsior,  amid  which  squatted  the  connoisseur,  his  Cubisti- 
cal  features  contorted  like  some  good-natured  ghoul — and, 
adding  his  own  two  thousand  to  the  price  expected  from 
Mother,  plus  that  of  the  other  Musketeers,  continued —  "...  a 
very  dear  friend's — Then  the  ship-captain's  is  fifteen  hundred 
dollars'  worth.  All  the  rest  that  Senor  Gomez  has  is  yours, 
Mrs.  Mybus.  If  that  should  happen  to  be  less  than  I've  guar- 
anteed you,  here  is  a  fair  return  for  so  much  risk." 

He  tapped  some  sheets. 

"Why,  we'll  divide  the  entire  cargo  evenly — between  me,  my 
friend  and  the  captain.  Ten  thousand  invested  between  us 
and  we'll  sell  for  over  a  hundred  thousand,  not  counting  your 
extra  profit  retailing  to  your  customers." 

"Xot  my  customers,  Mr.  Arnold,"  disclaimed  Mother 
promptly.  "Mr.  Enoch,  he  has  customers,  though." 

"Well,  Mr.  Enoch,  then,"  said  Arnold  with  an  air  of  indif- 


Rebellion  331 

ference.  "He  makes  about  one  hundred  per  cent,  extra  profit, 
anyhow,  doesn't  he  ?" 

"One  hundred  per  cent.  ?"  she  screamed.  "Not  half,  Mr. 
Arnold.  Not  a  quarter.  "What  about  his  valuable  time  ?  Just 
think  of  his  valuable  time  !  And  his  valuable  rent — " 

Apricott,  having  filled  his  pockets  with  valuable  "cans"  from 
various  parts  of  the  valuable  box,  now  slid  stealthily  from  the 
room,  his  eyes  telling  Mother  to  keep  Arnold's  turned  in  her 
direction  so  that  their  valuable  visitor  might  not  be  disturbed 
by  so  valuable  a  departure. 

"Have  it  your  own  way,"  said  Arnold  irritably.  "It's  no 
concern  of  mine,  what  you  people  do  with  yours.  Your  profits 
— or  his — that's  your  own  business.  The  point  is  that  the 
profits  are  big  enough  even  without  your  retail  profits;  big 
enough  to  make  your  paying  the  expenses  worth  your  while — " 

He  took  out  Captain  Danny's  note  of  that  afternoon ;  stated 
approximately — hypotheses — calculations.  .  .  . 

She  held  up  both  hands  frequently  and  emitted  a  squeal  like 
an  animal  in  pain.  It  was  her  established  way  of  making  bar- 
gains and  she  could  not  depart  from  it  even  when  she  knew 
it  was  useless,  saw  that  Arnold  disregarded  her. 

"That  will  provide  for  emergencies — damage  from  possible 
storms  and  so  forth.  Then  there  are  bonuses  to  the  crew  to 
keep  quiet,  insurance  to  pay.  The  actual  rental  will  be  around 
a  hundred  a  week,  all  expenses  borne  by  us  of  course.  .  .  . 
The  insurance  covers  total  loss.  Not  that  the  round  trip  is 
bound  to  be  three  months — that's  an  outside  limit.  You'll 
get  some  of  your  expense  money  back — a  great  deal  of  it — but 
I  wouldn't  go  into  the  thing  unless  you  were  willing  to  put 
up  the  whole  three  thousand.  The  owner  of  the  ship  can't 
afford  to  wait  for  his  money.  If  he  could,  he  wouldn't  be  rent- 
ing it.  And  he  happens  to  be  too  decent  an  old  gentleman 
to  go  into  bankruptcy  because  you  aren't  willing  to  do  what 
anybody  else  would  expect  to  do — " 

He  was  playing  safe,  was  Arnold,  for  Archie's  sake ;  for  al- 
though Archie  had,  in  the  first  flash  of  gratitude  to  his  sa- 


332  God's  Man 

vior,  granted  the  possibility  of  holding  off  for  three  months, 
he  also  admitted  that  some  bills  must  be  met  before  that  time 
and  could  be  extended  only  with  difficulty. 

But  Mother's  cheque  for  the  expenses,  held  to  the  credit  of 
Van  Vhroon  and  Company  under  the  united  signatures  of 
Arnold  and  Archie,  would  suffice  for  the  more  pressing  bills 
in  case  of  bad  weather,  protracted  calms,  or  delays  in  general. 

Here  Apricott  returned  from  his  Attic. 

"The  Doc  tried  it,"  quoth  he.  "I  hadda  jest  wrench  the 
can  away  from  him  after  his  first  long  draw.  He's  offering 
double  prices  for  a  toey  of  it.  .  .  ." 

Arnold,  observing  Mother's  darkening  brows,  and  remem- 
bering a  similar  look  directed  by  Clabber  to  Boy  Number  One, 
laughed  aloud.  "No  use,  Mrs.  Mybus,"  he  said  almost  gaily. 
"I  know  the  value  of  the  stuff,  and  I've  got  a  fixed  price  on  it. 
I'd  have  sold  it  all  to  Clabber,  but  I  wanted  to  be  fair  to  my 
future  partner — partners,"  he  added,  for  he  saw  she  would 
again  insist  upon  Apricott's  sole  responsibility.  .  .  . 
"Just  take  this  as  a  sample  of  the  truth  of  the  rest  of  it.  Of 
course,  you  must  take  my  word.  But  you  don't  need  to  hand 
me  any  money  except  the  expenses  and  the  payment  for  the 
present  box.  Mr.  Apricott  can  sail  on  the  ship  and  have  full 
charge  of  your  money  for  investment.  All  I  want  is  a  chance 
to  invest  my  own  and  my  friend's.  Together,  we'll  only  have 
what  you'll  have.  And  out  of  ours  we've  got  a  dead  loss  of 
five  thousand — more  than  your  expenses — I  mean  what  goes 
to  my  friend — the  young  man  who  invested  in  Instantaneous 
Boiler.  I  don't  really  believe  I'd  have  gone  into  this  at  all 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  him.  But,  since  I  am  in  it,  I  want  some- 
thing for  myself,  personally.  And  that'll  be  much  less  than 
what  you'll  get.  ...  So  I  can't  see  where  I'm  asking  for 
anything  unfair — " 

"What  of  the  ship-captain  ?  Does  he  take  his  pay  in  buying 
the  stuff,  himself?"  asked  Apricott  sharply.  Arnold  nodded. 

"And  glad  enough  to  do  it,  I  should  think,"  growled  Mother, 
annoyed  at  the  thought  that  one  so  unintelligent  as  to  spend 


Rebellion  333 

a  lifetime  at  honest  sailing-craft  should  receive  so  large  a  re- 
ward. For  the  moment,  she  considered  Captain  Danny — 
whose  name  she  did  not  know.  Once  the  honest  mariner  came 
into  his  profits,  he  might  be  worthy  the  attention  of  some  one 
of  her  Horde. 

The  sham  and  cunning  of  the  old  woman  amused  Arnold. 
Having  cast  scruples  aside,  he  no  longer  permitted  himself 
to  hold  the  scales  of  moral  judgment.  Mother  Mybus  then, 
considered  aside  from  her  occupation  and  vicious  influence, 
was  to  him  only  a  character,  and  he  enjoyed  her  resemblance 
to  Waldemar,  the  "good  business  man" ;  all  the  more  when  she 
protested  her  poverty,  her  inability  to  raise  the  sum  needed 
without  finding  a  mortgage  for  her  "little  stock,"  her  lack  of 
connection  with  Apricott — who  could  raise  more  of  the  money 
than  she  could,  twice  as  quickly  too. 

"Fve  put  up  his  rent  twice  and  still  he  goes  on  making  ten 
times  more,"  she  said,  pretending  to  be  dolorous  over  it.  "Hun- 
dreds of  dollars  to  my  one,  that  Mr.  Enoch.  Eh  ?"  And  Ap- 
ricott smiled  sourly.  "So,  as  he's  the  man  who'll  get  most 
of  the  profit,  he  must  sign  papers  with  you,  Mr.  Arnold,"  she 
said  finally,  Arnold's  terms  having  been  accepted  only  after 
he  had  twice  taken  up  his  hat  and  threatened  to  go  to  Clabber. 

"I  made  the  best  terms  I  could  for  you,  Mr.  Enoch,"  she 
added,  simpering.  "But  Mr.  Arnold  is  sharper  than  an  old 
woman.  Maybe  you  could  have  done  better  yourself.  .  .  . 
The  paper  and  ink  is  on  the  second  shelf  under  the  blue  cups," 
she  added,  pointing.  Apricott  put  them  before  the  somewhat 
startled  Arnold.  Not  that  he  gave  signs  of  being  startled: 
that  might  arouse  suspicion.  He  reflected  that  he  had  been  a 
fool  to  suppose  that  such  an  astute  old  customer  as  Mother, 
always  alert  for  the  chance  to  cheat,  would  enter  into  any 
scheme  involving  a  stranger's  handling  of  her  beloved  money 
without  some  assurance  that  her  interests  would  be  protected. 

She  had  been  searching  Arnold's  face  for  signs  of  possible 
duplicity  ever  since  his  arrival.  But  a  paper  signed  with  his 
name  was  better  than  any  character-reading;  such  a  one  would 


334  God's  Man 

be  clever  enough  to  feign  anything.  The  paper,  she  made  up 
her  mind,  must  be  a  practical  confession  of  a  conspiracy 
against  the  law,  one  that  she  could  use  to  put  him  into  jail  if 
she  caught  him  at  any  games.  Of  course,  she  could  not  send 
him  there  without  sending  Apricott,  too;  but  who  was  Apri- 
cott  that  she  should  hesitate  between  his  imprisonment  and 
revenge  for  the  loss  of  her  money  ? 

"Now,  Mr.  Arnold/'  she  dictated,  "say  that  you  and  Mr. 
Enoch  make  a  partnership  to  buy  Mexican  opium.  He  pays 
the  expenses,  you  find  the  stuff,  and  each  of  you  takes  equal 
shares.  Put  that  in  lawyer's  language,  Mr.  Arnold." 

Not  without  some  misgivings,  Arnold  re-phrased  this  as 
directed,  and  showed  her  the  result.  "You  haven't  dated  it, 
Mr.  Arnold,"  she  objected,  returning  it — an  oversight  only. 
But  now  that  she  seemed  concerned  about  it,  Arnold  realized 
that  the  date  alone  was  damning  should  the  paper  ever  find 
its  way  into  a  law-court — for  the  new  law  especially  forbade 
any  such  trading  without  a  Federal  license. 

"I'll  date  it  when  I  sign  it,"  he  returned  curtly.  "And  I'll 
sign  it  when  I  have  the  money,  Mrs.  Mybus."  She  shot  him 
a  keen  glance,  then  smiled — if  the  contortion  of  her  crooked 
mouth  full  of  crooked  teeth  might  be  so  termed. 

"I  think  you  should  agree  to  that,  Mr.  Enoch,"  she  said, 
passing  on  the  paper.  "When  can  you  have  this  money? 
To-morrow  morning  by  ten  o'clock  ?" 

"I  dare  say,"  rejoined  Apricott,  sulky  at  the  scorn  in  Ar- 
nold's eyes  and  at  being  forced  to  play  a  part  so  ridiculously 
transparent. 

Nikko  took  off  his  spectacles  and  polished  them  carefully 
with  a  handkerchief  of  red  silk.  He  was  maliciously  pleased, 
and  some  sort  of  approving  noise  escaped  him  as  he  blew  upon 
the  lenses.  Arnold  turned  to  look  at  him,  shifted  his  gaze  to 
observe  the  malignity  of  Apricott's  eyes  and  the  satisfied  cun- 
ning -of  Mother's.  Suddenly  he  felt  sick  of  the  whole  busi- 
ness. Archie  had  messed  up  his  own  life;  why  should  he, 


Rebellion  335 

Arnold,  let  so  weak  and  useless  a  creature  mess  up  his  life, 
too,  the  life  of  one  worth  twenty  Archies  ? 

Some  words  of  Nietzsche's  recurred  to  him.  "Slave  ethics — 
the  strong  can  never  raise  the  weak — can  only  be  pulled  down 
by  them" — perhaps  not  the. exact  words,  but  that  was  what 
the  mad  philosopher  had  meant.  Was  he  mad,  though  ?  Was 
he  not,  rather,  looking  at  the  facts  unsentimentally.  How  of 
Arnold's  own  misfortunes  ?  The  Jinx,  Hugo,  Hans  Chasser- 
ton,  all  three  had  been  weaklings.  And  had  his  attempt  to 
succor  them  raised  them  up?  As  Nietzsche  said,  they  had 
only  dragged  him  down — each  one  a  little  farther  down,  un- 
til, only  by  invoking  the  aid  of  another  strong  man,  the  elder 
Waldemar,  and  his  "dirty  politics,"  had  he  got  up  again. 

Now  here  was  a  fourth  weakling — Archie.  Should  he  take 
the  chance  for  such  a  one? — the  chance  of  going  down  per- 
manently. For  what?  Had  a  boy  who  had  shown  himself 
so  little  able  to  manage  himself  any  right  to  a  large  property  ? 
Better  let  him  remain  poor  where  he  could  hurt  only  himself. 
Archie,  married  to  Carol  and  in  possession  of  Exmoor,  was  a 
menace,  another  one  to  make  property  hateful.  And  the 
progeny  of  a  weakling  and  a  female  snob — were  they  fit  to 
inherit?  Above  all,  to  achieve  such  paltry  results  had  he, 
Arnold  L'Hommedieu,  a  man  with  the  power  to  make  the 
world  better  for  having  lived  in  it,  the  right  to  negative  all 
possible  future  influence  by  the  scandal  of  an  arrest  and  con- 
viction for  opium-smuggling?  Who  would  listen  after  he  had 
been  arraigned  in  the  dock  with  such  outcasts  from  civiliza- 
tion as  this  blind  Eussian  fanatic,  this  malignant  man  with 
the  missing  fingers  and  this  vicious  old  woman. 

It  was  then  that  he  trembled  on  the  verge  of  repudiating 
the  scheme,  of  abandoning  Archie  to  the  results  of  his  own 
folly.  Had  it  been  written  that  he  should  be  given  the  time 
at  that  moment  to  consider  his  position  in  terms  of  positivist 
philosophy  it  is  probable  that  the  undated  paper  would  have 
been  destroyed  rather  than  signed ;  for,  so  complex  is  the  mind 


336  God's  Man 

of  man,  that  the  same  statistics  may  prove  equally  to  its  satis- 
faction the  truth  of  two  philosophies,  directly  antithetical; 
that  the  life  of  any  man  may  be  accepted  as  evidence  of  either 
a  Divine  or  a  Diabolic  theory — this  being  the  imperfection  of 
the  thing  called  metaphysics.  And,  at  that  time,  Arnold  had 
found  no  enlightening  proof  to  maintain  his  belief  that  the 
solar  system  was  operated  on  any  other  principle  than  the  sur- 
vival of  the  fittest.  Men  had  come  out  of  their  trees  and 
caves  on  that  principle,  and  their  empires  and  civilizations 
had  been  built  and  destroyed  on  that  principle. 

But  it  so  happened  that  he  got  no  further  in  his  argument 
along  these  lines.  Co-ordinate  the  interrupting  incident  with 
those  other  incidents  that  had  brought  him  to  the  Inn;  then 
call  it  what  you  will.  But  in  face  of  such  incidents  the 
weightiest  mustering  of  facts,  the  most  powerfully  presented 
systems  of  logic,  ...  all  go  down  like  regiments  of  well- 
trained  soldiers  before  the  fire  of  a  hidden  machine- 
gun.  .  .  . 

Thus  it  happened  then  that  as  Arnold  stood  by  the  bay- 
window  whose  flowers  called  him  to  the  country  and  to  home 
a  door  opened  and  at  the  head  of  the  three  little  steps  below 
it  Arnold  saw  one  of  those  weaklings  for  whom  he  had  already 
endured  so  much — Hans  Chasserton,  apron  about  waist,  broom 
in  hand,  his  face  all  silly,  simpering  smile  and  vacant  eyes. 
.  .  .  Yet,  far  from  causing  regret  for  his  sacrifice,  in  that 
instant  Arnold  was  on  fire  with  rage  and  rebellion ;  and  once 
more  he  regretted  nothing.  If  to  be  strong  was  to  endure  the 
eight  of  human  beings  brought  so  low  through  the  cunning 
and  greed  of  their  self-proclaimed  masters,  he,  Arnold,  was 
content  to  be  on  the  side  of  the  weaklings.  Returned  to  him 
all  his  hatred  of  a  social  system  that  yielded  respect  to  such 
as  Quivvers;  that,  despite  the  ugly  facts  of  their  career  gave 
them  wealth  and  honor.  If  to  be  strong  was  to  ally  himself 
with  them,  then  let  all  his  friends  be  such  as  Archie;  let 
him  sink  lower  than  the  lowest,  yet  he  could  never  reach  the 


Rebellion  337 

Quivvers  depth ;  no,  not  even  the  depth  of  Ivan  Waldemar,  or 
the  depth  of  Benjamin  Hartogensis. 

"I  swept  up  the  first  forty-two  rooms.  I'm  going  to  do 
the  next  forty-two  to-morrow/"  said  Hans  Chasserton,  closing 
the  door  and  standing  the  broom  in  a  corner.  He  hung  up 
his  apron,  then  came,  curiously,  toward  Arnold.  "I  know 
you,  too,"  he  said,  "you  took  a  trip  with  me  in  my  trunk  once, 
didn't  you  ?  They  won't  believe  it  has  forty-two  rooms,"  he 
complained,  requesting  verification  from  Arnold.  "You  tell 
'em.  It  ought  to.  I  paid  forty-two  hundred  dollars  for  it 
and  it  was  worth  it,  'cause  I  beat  old  Lipton  with  it.  But 
Mr.  Quivvers  took  my  medal  and  give  me  a  bang  on  the  head, 
and  when  I  woke  up  I  didn't  know  nobody.  But  you  and  me 
know,  don't  we  ?" 

"Yes,  we  know,"  agreed  Arnold  dully.  The  boy,  nodding 
his  triumph,  sank  down  on  an  ottoman  beside  Nikko's  chair, 
and  the  blind  man  put  a  protecting  arm  about  him. 

By  that  single  action  and  the  boy's  presence,  the  whole 
group  was  transfigured.  No  longer  was  Nikko  to  be  blamed 
for  being  malicious,  Apricott  for  his  malignancy,  Mother  My- 
bus  for  her  viciousness;  no  more  than  was  the  boy  for  his 
idiocy.  They  were  not  as  Nature  had  made  them ;  but  as  the 
cruelty  of  their  conquerors  had  caused  them  to  be.  It  was 
better  to  be  allied  with  the  victims  than  with  those  who  had 
made  them  what  they  were;  better  to  break  laws  that  gave 
power  to  such  as  Waldemar  than  to  give  them  approval  by 
advantaging  himself  through  Waldemar's  connivance.  And 
so,  eyes  burning  and  hand  trembling,  he  snatched  the  paper 
and  signed  it,  a  defiant  flourish  under  his  name,  a  carefully 
executed  bit  of  scrollwork  beneath  the  date ;  both  proofs  that 
he  lacked  any  regret  for  standing  committed  to  break  those 
laws.  For  he  saw  only  their  result — the  vacant-eyed,  blankly 
cheerful  idiot-boy;  the  maimed  man  of  the  mills  with  the 
missing  fingers,  and  the  sightless  eyes  of  old  Nikko,  a  prophecy 
of  what  such  laws  could  be  did  their  enforcement  remain  long 


338  God's  Man 

in  despotic  hands.  And  as  the  shrewd  cunning  in  the  fat 
woman's  eyes  was  replaced  by  a  sort  of  rough  tenderness  as 
she  looked  on  the  old  man,  Arnold  forgot  his  dislike  for  her. 
She  could  not  be  thoroughly  bad,  for  she  had  not  forgotten 
how  to  pity.  Suddenly  he  took  her  hand  and  shook  it 
warmly.  All  the  lawlessness  in  him  surged  up  and  sent 
the  blood  rushing  to  his  head.  He  extended  his  other  hand 
to  Apricott  and  as  the  three  stood  there  in  the  glow  of  the  fire, 
a  grotesque  group,  two  gargoyles  surrounding  a  sculptured 
marble,  he  laughed  loudly,  glorying  in  his  reckless  rebellion. 
"We'll  show  'em  a  thing  or  two  about  making  money,  eh  ?'' 
he  said. 


END  OF   BOOK  V 


BOOK  VI 


CHAPTER    ONE 

THE  VIKING  SHIP 
I.  SHE  GOES 


ATE  in  May  the  Cormorant  sailed; 
cruising  papers  signed  by  her 
usual  captain  but  by  a  new 
"owner/'  one  "E.  Apricott" — to 
the  sailors  an  eccentric  "self- 
made"  millionaire;  to  old  Mr. 
Van  Vhroon  young  Mr.  L'Hom- 
T-  medieu's  valet. 

"Arnold's  afraid  some  other 
newspaper  men  'ull  come  aboard, 
•Uncle  Arch,  .  .  .  and  if  we 
use  his  name — or  they  see  him 
• — good  night,  nurse !" 

"What,  sir?     .     .     ." 

"So  Hugo  and  I  'ull  go  down  to  Havre  to  see  him  off. 
Danny  'ull  pick  him  up  there.  His  dad's  got  an  Alco — " 

"And  he  has,  I  believe,  a  certain  knowledge  of  the  English 
language,  sir — which  you  do  not  share — and,  .  .  ." 

But  Archie  was  off — the  same  old  ebullient  Archie.  Ar- 
nold was  worrying.  Why  should  he  worry,  too?  That,  at 
least,  was  what  his  subconsciousness  must  have  said,  for,  al- 
though sufficiently  lugubrious  in  Arnold's  presence,  he  added 
several  highly  expensive  articles  to  Carol's  future  Circassian 
menage.  .  .  . 


342  God's  Man 

Why  not  ?  Harvey  Quinn  was  to  carry  a  plethora  of  gold 
and  notes  in  a  snakeskin  belt  about  his  waist — enough  to 
.  .  .  But  any  account  of  Archie's  wool  gatherings  is  out 
of  place  save  in  a  penny  book  of  dreams.  .  .  . 

Once  out  of  Hell's  Gate,  the  clipper  was  not  headed  S.  S.  E. 
— as  for  Havre  de  Grace,  but  N.  N.  E. — as  for  „  .  .  No- 
where. Off  the  Middle  Ground  Light  she  became  as  bare- 
masted  as  a  barge,  as  listless  as  Sir  Lackadaisical,  keeper  of 
said  light,  who,  after  half-a-day^s  debate  with  himself — sun- 
down approaching  and  those  cursed  lamps  demanding  atten- 
tion, anyhow — reached  for  his  Goetz  lenses  to  discover  the 
reason  for  an  equal  amount  of  inactivity  on  the  part  of  that 
black  blotch  beyond. 

But  he  was  too  late.  The  sailors  had  ceased  to  dot  the  cross- 
trees,  the  carpenter  no  longer  ornamented  the  bowsprit.  And, 
bravely  begilt  anew,  said  sprit  of  the  temporarily  christened 
Hardicanute  swung  athwart  the  watcher's  line  of  vision — 
the  leggy  sheep's  sail  overhead  listless  no  longer,  but  straining 
even  that  poetic  license,  the  ".  .  .  mutton"  metaphor. 
And  many  heads  above  her  and  many  times  as  big  and  obey- 
ing the  first  command  of  the  coming  Connecticut  nor'easter — 
spars  and  blocks  creaking — her  mainyard  swung  free. 

How  the  wind  hammered  at  her  canvas,  the  lightkeeper 
could  conjecture  from  the  imminent  peril  of  his  own  laundry 
outside.  This  rescued,  the  sun  had  turned  the  Goetz  lenses 
into  burning-glasses,  and  he  saw  nothing  of  a  certain  broad- 
side maneuver — the  approach  of  a  tiny  Alco,  the  transfer 
of  one  Quinn  (alias  L'Hommedieu)  by  means  of  a  starboard 
rope-ladder.  .  .  .  And  the  return  of  the  tiny  Alco  to  the 
shore,  where,  after  climbing  the  bluff  to  where  the  chalet 
stood,  its  crew  of  three  passed  another  Goetz  from  hand  to 
hand — and  while,  a  veritable  Viking  ship  off  on  a  veritable 
Viking  venture,  the  Cormorant  dipped  her  newly-gilded 
nose  into  boiling  scum  and  seething  spray,  ...  a  brave 
little  speck  of  white  slipping  over  the  edge  of  the  world.  .  .  . 


The  Viking  Ship  343 

II.  ABNOLD  STAYS 

Four  months  passed,  Archie  alternately  anxious,  insouciant, 
suicidal.  Bitter  months  for  Hugo.  The  reason  soon  to  be 
made  clear.  Weary  with  work  and  worry  for  Arnold;  for 
since  coming  to  the  house  on  the  bluff  his  writing  that  waa 
to  have  given  him  so  much  had  given  just  nothing  at  all.  He 
had  remained  at  Waldemar's  only  a  few  weeks  after  the  Cor- 
morant's departure.  There  had  been  a  suddenly  increased 
demand  for  the  Syndicate's  gum-opium,  as  other  supplies 
failed  the  secret  manufacturer  of  the  Apricott  type.  What 
remained  had  been  sold,  by  the  beginning  of  June,  each  in- 
voice at  an  increased  price,  each  partner  sharing  unlooked-for 
profits;  Arnold's  several  hundred  more  than  the  maximum 
anticipated. 

What  a  difference  between  these  and  his  Cormorant  part- 
ners !  Xothing  risked,  nothing  to  fear,  not  even  a  lost  repu- 
tation. Continuing  their  "I-am-holier,"  .  .  .  none 
might  say  them  nay.  Yet  for  the  very  same  thing  he  and  his 
fellow  smugglers  would  soon  risk  not  only  reputations  but  lib- 
erty— maybe  life.  .  .  . 

Waldemar,  highly  pleased,  gave  Arnold  a  bonus,  compli- 
menting his  systematic  bookkeeping  and  prompt  shipments. 

"If   Hugo   had   your  head — or,     .     .     .     habits.     .    . 
Women,  my  boy,  are  the  ruin  of  you  young  fellows.     .     .     . 
That  little  hussy.     .     .     ." 

He  clenched  his  fists.  "Hugo's  been  a  great  disappoint- 
ment to  me,  Arnold." 

"I'm  mighty  glad  of  it  if  he  has  been,"  Arnold  would  have 
liked  to  say  savagely,  forgetting  his  friendship  for  the  son  in 
his  deep  dislike  of  the  father,  whom  he  had  come  to  know  too 
well. 

Few  weeks  passed  that  he  had  not  requested  Arnold  to  re- 
write for  him  in  decent  English  some  speech  he  was  to  deliver 
at  a  public  dinner  or  political  meeting,  while,  as  for  "com- 
mencements"— no  Suffolk  County  school,  public  or  private. 


344  God's  Man 

seemed  satisfied  unless  the  "Honnible  Johnnie"  enlightened 
and  encouraged  its  embryo  citizens  concerning  and  toward 
honesty,  private  and  public,  concluding  with  an  appeal  to 
their  Anglo-Saxon  virtues — wherever  native  Americans 
abounded,  or  with  ecstatic  encomiums  of  the  immigrant  races. 
In  frenzied  disgust  Arnold  often  turned  these  into  rhetoric  so 
florid,  so  full  of  bombastic  periods  that  he  was  sure  some  one 
would  have  sufficient  humor  to  recognize  the  hand  of  a  bur- 
lesquer.  .  .  .  When  no  one  did  Arnold's  doubts  as  to 
the  wisdom  of  universal  suffrage  became  absolute  antago- 
nism. 

Waldemar  had  been  alarmed  when  Arnold  had  suggested 
leaving  his  employment.  He  had  long  since  realized  the  com- 
mercial value  of  the  younger  man's  intellect.  .  .  .  And 
now  that  Hugo  had  failed  him,  "an  honest  partner  for  a 
swindle"  was,  as  always,  the  hardest  man  on  earth  to  find. 
.  .  .  Hence  promises  of  future  preferment :  Arnold  should 
be  a  partner ;  in  time  a  partner  with  Hugo.  .  .  . 

".  .  .  Besides  the  use  you  are  to  me,  you're  the  only 
one  he  listens  to.  His  poor  old  father  that  made  a  gentleman 
of  him  and  a  fortune  for  him — lie  don't  count  a-tall.  Not 
a-tall.  You  think  it's  right  he  should  disgrace  his  poor  old 
father  who's  worked  so  hard  to  give  him  a  name  to  be  proud 
of  ?  Here  .  .  .  for  instance"  .  .  .  and  he  displayed 
a  goodly  puff  from  an  upstate  paper,  by  a  reporter  richer 
through  the  "Honnible  Johnnie" — "as  his  loving  constituents 
addressed  him,  affectionately,  one  and  all — " 

Waldemar,  "The  People's  Man,"  had  a  special  photograph 
as  such:  shirt-sleeved,  coat  on  arm,  hand  in  that  of  a  grimy 
laborer.  More  dignified  journalism  told  the  tale  of  the  son 
of  the  Eussian  loyar,  the  landed  proprietor  who  had  quarreled 
with  his  father  because  he  would  not  marry  a  rich  girl  he  did 
not  love. 

"Poverty  and  Liberty,"  was  one  Sunday  "head." 

For  the  time,  as  we  have  said,  so  great  was  Arnold's  dislike 
for  Hugo's  father,  he  forgot  his  friendship  and  was  glad  that 


The  Viking  Ship  345 

young  man  was  disappointing  the  honorable  gentleman.  The 
carefully  built-up  business  in  poisons  would  smash  when  it 
got  into  Hugo's  hands — a  very  good  thing  for  everybody  con- 
cerned. So  perhaps  Bobbie  Beulah  was  not  an  unmixed  evil 
after  all — otherwise  Hugo  might  have  developed  into  an  un- 
wieldy unknowing  elephant  who  destroyed  not  in  malice  but 
in  ignorance. 

"Try  an'  wean  him  away,"  Waldemar  had  continued. 
"Wean  him  and  I'll  make  it  worth  your  while.  Get  him  to  go 
to  Europe:  I'll  pay  the  bills.  .  .  ." 

Arnold  said  he  needed  the  summer.  If  Waldemar  would 
give  him  until  after  the  "rush"  season  .  .  .  for  which  he 
would  return,  he  would  see. 

Waldemar  had  acceded,  grudgingly,  rather  than  lose  him  al- 
together. 

But,  though  he  convinced  with  a  show  of  firmness,  Arnold 
would  not  have  dared  an  open  break  with  Waldemar.  The 
Honnible  Johnnie's  elaborate  business  system  was  necessary 
to  the  success  of  the  smuggling  scheme.  When  the  Cormo- 
rant's cargo  was  brought  to  the  city,  the  distributing  facilities 
of  the  Waldemar  company  would  be  needed  to  market  the  stuff, 
to  distribute  it  throughout  the  country  to  the  same  people 
who  had  bought  from  the  "Syndicate."  To  start  a  new  firm 
which,  suddenly,  would  begin  to  ship  a  suspiciously  large  num- 
ber of  express  packages — a  firm  unincorporated  and  unknown 
— was  to  awaken  the  attention  of  the  Federal  agents,  who, 
hawk-like,  watched  the  express  companies,  the  only  agents  of 
distribution.  The  Treasury  Department  (the  official  overlord 
of  the  Customs)  maintained  a  set  of  examiners  who  did  noth- 
ing much  except  pay  weekly  visits  to  express  offices  keeping 
their  books  under  close  surveillance.  Others  kept  track  of 
the  drivers  and  paid  them  for  information.  Arnold  needed 
the  Waldemar  label  on  his  shipments, — a  label  with  which 
even  the  Federals  would  hesitate  to  tamper,  bearing  as  it  did 
the  name  of  a  Congressman  high  in  favor  with  the  adminis- 
tration, a  word  from  whom  would  mean  official  decapitation 


346  God's  Man 

for  minor  officials.  And  why  should  they  suspect  a  firm  so 
long  established  ? 

Separate  sheds  had  been  hired  for  the  syndicate  stores  and 
shipments.  Although  the  Waldemar  label  had  been  used,  the 
work  had  no  connection  with  the  great  Waldemar  warehouses 
on  Bleecker  Street,  nor  had  the  Superintendent  thereof  any 
suzerainty  over  Arnold's  work.  He  had  merely  vised  the 
younger  man's  telephone  requests  for  trucks  and  delivery 
wagons,  being  so  ordered  by  his  employer.  oSTow  that  the  syndi- 
cate was  abolished,  Waldemar  would  have  terminated  his 
tenancy,  but  the  Christopher  Street  property  had  been  leased 
for  a  twelfth-month  so  the  sheds  remained,  for  all  to  see,  the 
leasehold  of  "The  Waldemar  Drug  Company," — the  name  in 
white  letters  upon  black  barn-like  doors  which,  locked  and 
mudsplashed,  now  awaited  the  Cormorant's  cargo. 

Meanwhile,  Arnold,  down  in  the  country,  also  awaiting  it, 
was  endeavoring  to  put  upon  paper,  in  scornful  satire,  the 
world  as  it  was — or  as  it  seemed  to  him  to  be :  a  place  of  use- 
less striving  and  trumpery  rewards.  He  lived  alone  in  the 
house  on  the  bluff,  a  place  not  unlike  a  small  Swiss  chalet, 
built  by  a  New  York  broker,  now  bankrupt,  for  the  "duck- 
shooting"  season — a  season  again  approaching,  these  early 
September  days.  For  the  hearts  of  the  leaves  showed  red 
against  the  green,  the  bobolinks  had  begun  their  flight  south- 
ward to  the  Carolina  rice-fields,  the  crows  were  squawking 
above  seas  of  golden  corn,  the  bluebirds  and  purple  martins 
were  yielding  their  long-contested  nests  to  their  noisy  enemies, 
the  sparrows. 

III.  ON  THE  SPANISH  MAIN 

Arnold  was  a  lover  of  birds.  The  old  L'Hommedieu  farm 
during  his  boyhood  had  been  their  favorite  Mecca.  And  now, 
since  he  had  taken  up  residence  in  the  Swiss  chalet,  he  again 
gave  them  much  of  his  spare  time,  making  them  attractive 
homes  in  hollow-trees,  on  poles,  in  boxes  suspended  from 


The  Viking  Ship  347 

branches,  or  under  the  low  overhanging  eaves  of  the  house 
itself.  .  .  .  But,  the  nesting  season  over,  he  began  to  miss 
the  good-natured  notes  of  the  robins :  from  being  home  bodies, 
they  had  turned  to  adventurous  gipsies,  taking  up  tempo- 
rary residence  wherever  wild-cherries  or  cedar-berries  were 
to  be  found.  He  seldom  heard  the  bubbling  notes  of  the  wren, 
the  rosebreast,  not  at  all ;  that  child  of  the  hot  sun  had  betaken 
itself  farther  south  at  the  first  chill  breeze  from  the  Connecti- 
cut shore.  There  came  to  him  only  the  shrill  call  of  the  bob- 
white  and  the  drumming  of  the  ruffled  grouse,  birds  with 
good  reason  for  disbelief  in  human  friendship.  These,  with 
the  ever-present  rooks  and  ravens,  haunted  every  copse  and 
dell  and  drove  out  even  the  fighting  blue-jay. 

Autumn  and  the  time  for  the  return  of  the  Cormorant 
were  drawing  near.  As  to  the  latter,  there  had  been  most 
vexatious  delays.  Arnold's  first  news  of  her  had  been  at 
Charleston:  a  fight  with  a  Hatteras  gale  had  carried  away 
her  topsails  and  had  blown  one  of  her  boats  down  on  the 
wheelhouse,  smashing  it  and  the  helmsman's  arm.  From 
Key  West  came  news  of  a  second  delay :  she  had  put  in  there 
to  escape  a  terrific  Gulf  storm  that  raged  for  days  from  the 
Carolinas  to  the  Keys.  .  .  .  Finally  sighting  the  coast  of 
Yucatan,  she  must,  to  disguise  her  destination,  cruise  about 
aimlessly :  a  Mexican  destroyer  on  the  watch  for  gunrunners 
and  filibusters  persisting  in  keeping  her  sighted  until,  dis- 
gusted, Captain  Danny  sailed  off  toward  Honduras.  This 
had  cost  them  nearly  a  fortnight.  When  at  last  they  reached 
the  narrow  creek  that  wound  through  these  swamplands  that 
surrounded  the  fields  of  rice  and  poppies  owned  by  the  Senor 
Don  Guillermo  Gomez  of  Pereira,  they  had  gone  aground  in 
mud  and  ooze. 

Thus  it  was  more  than  six  weeks  since  sailing-time  before 
they  reached  the  lagoon  of  the  Hacienda  del  Torres,  towed 
by  the  Senor  Don's  little  trading-tug.  On  making  their  busi- 
ness known  to  their  host,  they  were  disconcerted  to  discover 
that  just  before  receiving  Danny's  telegram  two  months  pre- 


348  God's  Man 

vious,  Don  Guillermo  had  sold  a  large  consignment  of  his 
refined  gum  to  border  smugglers  who  operated  far  to  the 
north,  near  El  Paso.  He  had  plenty  of  the  raw  stuff  in  his 
warehouses  and  the  new  crop  of  poppies  promised  well.  But 
the  Cormorant  must  wait  until  all  this  could  be  converted 
by  his  Chinese  into  the  precious  Li-un. 

All  in  all,  the  return  journey  was  not  begun  until  early  in 
August.  In  the  letter  that  told  of  it — written  by  Quinn — 
while  they  were  towed  down  the  creek  of  the  Seven  Sins — 
Captain  Danny  was  also  reported  as  prophesying  a  lengthy 
Northern  trip.  They  must  expect  the  summer  calms  off  the 
Gulf  coast;  calms  during  which  a  sailing-ship  rocked  on  the 
waves  like  a  baby  in  its  cradle,  when  one  could  but  lash  the 
wheel  and  let  the  men  have  their  liberty.  Such  calms  en- 
dured for  days,  sometimes  for  whole  weeks.  .  .  . 

With  ordinary  good  fortune,  however,  they  should  reach 
Long  Island  about  the  first  week  in  September.  Quinn's 
letter  advised  those  in  the  secret  to  take  up  residence  in  the 
Swiss  chalet  about  that  time  and  to  keep  a  "weather  eye" 
oceanward,  night  and  day. 

Thus  also  had  Apricott  written,  as  Arnold  learned  on  his 
visit  to  town  to  apprise  Mother  Mybus  of  the  progress  of  their 
plan.  Both  letters  had  been  long  delayed  in  consequence  of 
the  isolation  of  El  Hacienda  del  Torros,  from  which  the 
Gomez  trading-tug  went  to  the  nearest  town  only  weekly. 
Letters  must  then  await  the  next  mail-steamer,  the  town  being 
far  away  from  any  railroad.  So  that  it  was  the  twenty- 
eighth  of  August  before  Arnold  and  Mother  Mybus  had  been 
notified. 

Since  then  Arnold  wondered  why  he  did  not  live  in  feverish 
anticipation,  considering  that  his  chance  for  wealth  was  now 
so  near  at  hand.  But  he  seemed  to  have  found  far  more  ex- 
citement in  the  mere  rescue  of  a  young  crow,  wounded  in  a 
battle  with  two  gulls  and  flapping  feebly  in  the  underbrush, 
had  found  more  interest  in  teaching  it  to  talk — having  first 
taken  it  to  town  to  be  etherized  by  his  cousin,  Doctor  Will,  for 


The  Viking  Ship  349 

that  tongue-slitting  supposed  to  make  speech  possible;  had 
far  more  anticipation  in  watching  the  ebon  bird  stalk  about 
the  house,  and  wondering  what  next  it  would  gravely  mimic. 
Arnold  had  not  laughed  so  heartily  in  years  as  when,  on  the 
day  after  he  received  Quinn's  letter,  the  crow  had  begun  to 
chant  Onward,  Christian  Soldiers. 

The  first  few  bars  (all  it  had  ever  heard)  appeared  to  have 
been  selected  as  its  favorite  expression,  following  the  example 
of  a  drunken  carpenter,  who  had  repeated  them  in  its  pres- 
ence many  times,  and  in  what  to  Arnold  was  interminable 
monotony. 

Of  the  many  closely-written  pages  which  should  have  made 
at  least  one-half  of  his  great  revolutionary  novel,  Arnold  de- 
stroyed at  night  more  than  three-quarters  of  what  he  wrote 
during  the  day.  Yet,  altogether,  he  was  not  unhappy.  As 
August  passed  out  he  became  accustomed  to  his  solitude  and 
began  to  discontinue  his  daily  dinners  at  the  Parsonage. 
When  he  had  spent  two  days  without  hearing  any  human 
voice  but  his  own  and  no  thought  of  Velvet  Voice  had  in- 
truded upon  his  abstract  speculations,  he  had  the  satisfaction 
of  knowing  that  he  no  longer  needed  Bertie  or  any  other 
woman  to  soothe  his  wounded  pride. 

Man  is  not  necessarily  a  tribal  animal.  Association  with 
his  fellows,  he  found,  was  only  civilization's  habit — a  habit 
that  gives  too  little  time  for  observation  of  countless  other  of 
life's  recompenses.  Alone,  Arnold  could  realize  that  life 
among  men  is  but  a  small  and  perhaps  unimportant  portion 
of  life  in  all.  In  his  new  frame  of  mind  he  found  pleasure  in 
the  thought  that  so  little  had  been  revealed  to  man,  so  much 
remained  to  be  learned.  As  does  the  recluse  who  retires  from 
the  world  embittered  but  mentally  unimpaired,  he  began  to 
understand  what  Balzac  meant  by  the  human  comedy,  to  see 
the  super-man  as  a  naturalist  upon  an  ant-hill,  as  a  critic  at 
a  melodrama  too  cheap  for  serious  consideration. 

It  was  not  the  consciousness  of  his  inferiority  to  greater 
writers  that  stayed  his  pencil.  He  had  known  of  that  in- 


350  God's  Man 

feriority  too  long.  It  was  his  helpless  wonder  as  to  whether 
there  was  any  use  in  trying  to  teach  human  beings  at  all. 

As  well  spend  weary  days  and  sleepless  nights  endeavoring 
to  prevent  a  world  of  clumsy  feet  and  careless  hands  from 
treading  down  the  cities  of  the  ants,  tearing  away  the  laby- 
rinths of  the  spiders.  How  if  he  began  to  consider  the  mil- 
lions of  guns  that  carried  sudden  death  to  his  beloved  birds  ? 
To  the  end  of  time  the  work  of  nations  of  ants  would  be  de- 
stroyed by  the  first  malicious  foot  that  came  their  way.  Yet 
no  doubt  wise  ants  counseled  against  building  by  the  road- 
ways or  in  the  open  spaces;  counseled,  worried  and  wore 
themselves  out  for  their  ungrateful  fellows.  As  for  birds — 
the  warning  notes  of  the  wiser  ones  had  never  prevented  the 
decimation  of  their  tribes. 

"Were  foolish  human  beings  any  more  to  be  regarded  than 
spiders,  ants  or  birds  in  the  eyes  of  the  Almighty?  Did  it 
not  rather  depend  on  how  successful  the  exceptional  ones 
were  in  capturing  some  spark  of  the  Divine,  sparks  struck  off 
in  so  many  different  ways  if  one  had  only  the  wit  to  know 
them ;  sparks  that,  if  captured,  set  death  at  defiance  ?  What 
strange  secrets  were  held  within  the  rise  of  the  sun  and  its 
setting  ?  Why  was  it  that  he  could  not  look  upon  such  phe- 
nomena unmoved,  but  must  dumbly  crave  the  permanence  of 
some  of  this  beauty?  What  strange  stories  were  told  by  the 
cold  blasts  that  withered  the  flowers,  the  South  winds  that 
resurrected  them  from  the  earth  again?  Were  the  leaves 
that  rustled  in  the  wind  trying  to  reveal  the  secret  ?  Was  that 
the  reason  their  rustling  filled  him  with  such  strange  un- 
rest? .  .  . 

He  would  waken  from  such  abstractions  to  call  himself  a 
fanciful  fool,  a  zany  whom  solitude  was  threatening  with 
softening  of  the  brain.  Then  he  would  go  striding  off  into 
the  forest,  head  bent,  brows  knit,  trying  to  force  his  wander- 
ing wits  to  concentrate  upon  his  grimly  realistic  tale  of  har- 
lots and  thieves — harlots  and  thieves  of  all  sorts  from  Fifth 


The  Viking  Ship  351 

Avenue  to  Wall  Street  down,  or  up — which  constituted  the 
warning  tale  of  "grim,  relentless,  significant  life,"  which  he 
wanted  to  write. 

Perhaps  he  would  return  to  write  it,  doggedly  and  in  a 
frenzy  of  disgust — a  modified  disgust  compared  to  that  which 
he  experienced  when  he  read  what  he  had  written  and  hurled 
his  note-hook  across  the  room,  awakening  the  young  crow, 
who  would  begin  his  Onward,  Christian  Soldiers  until  Ar- 
nold threw  the  table-cloth  over  the  offending  head.  .  .  . 
And  then,  silent  and  supine,  Arnold  would  stare  at  the  stars 
and  listen  to  the  lapping  of  the  surf,  and  his  eyes,  grown 
fanciful  as  his  brain  in  the  solitude  and  darkness,  saw  moving 
shapes  outside.  Sometimes,  like  Joan  of  Domremy,  he 
seemed  to  hear  voices  in  the  trees.  .  .  .  Often  it  seemed 
he  had  grasped  something  tangible,  something  he  understood 
quite  well,  but  that  he  must  learn  to  translate  so  that  others 
might  understand.  And  he  was  vaguely  uplifted  until  he 
attempted  an  expression  of  it ;  then  it  was  nothing. 

He  would  be  a  trifle  comforted,  however,  when  he  read  the 
books  of  other  men,  his  former  idols ;  the  Eussian  realists  and 
their  French  imitators,  the  novels  of  "life."  Each  was  like 
a  dish  delicately  cooked  with  one  ingredient  missing,  the  one 
that  should  blend  the  flavors  into  an  appetizing  whole — or 
the  house  of  a  master  architect  who  had  gone  mad  and  had 
forgotten  to  put  in  the  staircase.  .  .  .  These  details  of 
unhappy  men  and  sordid  women,  this  was  not  life.  Like 
red  glass  lit  from  beneath,  that  on  the  stage  pretends  to  be  a 
fire,  they  lacked  warmth.  One  admired  the  near-perfect  con- 
struction of  the  house,  the  skill  of  the  chef,  but  went  away 
with  no  desire  to  dwell  within  nor  to  have  the  dish  for  dinner. 

And  this  was  what  he  had,  boastfully,  come  into  the 
country  to  do;  this  was  to  justify  his  rebellion  against  the 
law,  his  adoption  of  the  tactics  of  those  he  despised,  .  .  . 
this  paltry  achievement  that,  when  done,  meant  nothing  save 
to  a  crew  of  one-sided  enthusiasts  who  endeavored  to  atone 


352  God's  Man 

for  lack  of  life,  of  warmth,  of  influence  upon  humanity,  by 
calling  the  achievement  "art"  and  denying  that  "art"  had  to 
do  with  humanity. 

Along  with  other  illusions  went  his  desire  for  the  title  of 
"artist" — a  vainglorious  thing  not  of  nature  nor  of  the  Di- 
vine, but  a  poor  human  ennoblement  that  was  no  more  en- 
nobling than  the  accolade  upon  the  shoulder  of  a  brewer.  An 
artist — a  tender  of  dying  fires,  blowing  his  breath  on  them 
and  bidding  all  observe  how  they  outshone  the  feeble  sun  in 
the  heavens;  and,  even  as  the  tenders  turned,  the  fires  died 
down  and  new  ones  must  be  built  on  new  altars — the  old 
despised.  Art  was  anathema  since  it  had  become  a  thing  of 
human  rules,  of  dogma — what  did  they  know  of  "art,"  those 
great  inspired  ones  whose  works  the  little  people  explained  in 
terms  of  mystery — of  rationale — rapprochement — static  and 
plastic  values.  .  .  .  And  then,  having  followed  all  of  the 
rules,  the  little  people  had  no  power  to  give  the  breath  of 
life. 

Art !  He  wanted  Prometheus*  fire  to  blaze  out  so  the  whole 
world  would  see,  not  feeble,  flickering  temple  lights  that 
warmed  only  the  high  priests  and  them  not  truly.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER   TWO 

THE  WIRELESS  MESSAGE 
PINK  TUKNS  PHILOSOPHER 

WAS  on  the  afternoon  of  the 
sixteenth  that  quiet  fled  the  house 
on  the  bluff,  that  the  invasion 
the  Horde  began.  Arnold's 
first  knowledge  of  it  came  when, 
returning  from  a  trip  beyond 
Green  Sands  in  the  motor-boat, 
he  saw  floating  on  the  outgoing 
tide  something  dark  and  indis- 
tinct.  He  pulled  a  switch,  re- 
versing the  engine  and  backing 
the  boat  and  salvaged  this  flot- 
eam.  It  was  a  dead  duck,  its 
:  magnificent  expanse  of  white 

breast  disfigured  by  an.  ugly  hole.    As  Arnold  gripped  its  neck 
to  bring  it  in  a  small  fish  was  ejected  from  its  bill. 

The  incident  seemed  peculiarly  and  hatefully  typical  of 
the  wastefulness,  the  savagery  of  life.  Less  than  an  hour 
before — for  the  bird's  body  was  still  warm — that  fish  was 
alive  and  disporting  itself  among  its  fellows.  Then  the  duck 
had  dived  and  snatched  him  to  sudden  death.  But,  before 
it  could  be  swallowed,  even  as  the  duck's  head  came  above 
the  water,  a  shot  had  killed  the  killer.  Two  perfectly  useless 
deaths,  for  the  duck — the  coot — for  all  its  beauty  of  breast, 
was  fishy,  leathery  and  worthless  for  food.  Its  killing  had 


354  God's  Man 

been  merely  to  gratify  some  whim — perhaps  only  as  a  trial 
of  skill,  a  piece  of  human  vanity — for,  evidently,  there  had 
been  no  attempt  to  retrieve  it.  Just  so  were  human  beings 
slaughtered  to  no  end  save  to  give  gratification  to  others,  who, 
in  their  turn,  died  without  having  been  advantaged  in  the 
slightest.  And  they  called  that  Life ! 

He  cast  back  bird  and  fish,  and  continued  on  his  way,  try- 
ing to  think  again  of  the  ant-hill,  the  beehive,  the  spider- 
webs,  to  regain  his  view  of  life  as  the  human  comedy.  But 
the  homely  incident  had,  for  the  moment,  demolished  such 
theories — death  itself  was  too  actual  to  be  brushed  away  with 
a  laugh.  And  death  was  the  one  thing  he,  nor  any  other 
human  being,  could  not  understand.  It  was  not  the  fate  of 
those  two  inarticulate  things  that  moved  him  to  a  certain  un- 
defined terror  and  dismay.  It  was  the  thought  that,  though 
his  own  life  was  better  protected,  he  lived  in  a  world  of  death 
rather  than  life.  For  death,  unlike  life,  was  in  the  hands  of 
all — the  careless,  the  stupid,  the  malicious,  the  suddenly  en- 
raged. It  lurked  on  every  side,  in  the  bushes  where  a  snake 
could  suddenly  uprear  and  strike,  where  an  inexpert  or  a 
drunken  hunter  might  discharge  a  gun,  on  the  city  pave- 
ments, where  from  above  a  stone  or  a  bit  of  iron  might  fall 
upon  any  passer-by,  in  the  streets,  in  the  caprice  of  an  unruly 
horse  or  a  careless  chauffeur:  on  the  seas,  with  a  speed-driven 
captain,  or  a  sleepy  officer  on  the  bridge.  .  .  .  Every- 
where, anywhere,  this  Jove-like  power  was  shared  by  all  living 
things — even  to  the  birds  carrying  the  germs  of  disease,  the 
insects  heavy  with  dread  bacteria.  And  there  was  no  way  to 
guard  against  it.  Some  passed  unscathed  on  many  battle- 
fields to  die  only  after  they  had  drunk  deep  of  joy  and  sorrow. 
Others,  infants  never  a  foot  from  their  homes,  met  it  in  the 
first  unclean  milk-can.  .  .  . 

His  mind  had  a  surcease  from  such  gloomy  reflections  when 
it  dwelt  for  an  instant  on  the  extraordinarily  large  wound  in 
the  coot's  breast.  That  was  caused  by  no  shotgun,  nor  even 
a  rifle.  It  was  a  revolver-shot.  And  it  occurred  to  him  that 


The  Wireless  Message  355 

people  roundabout  Havre  de  Grace  did  not  carry  revolvers, 
there  being  a  stern  enforcement  of  the  law  against  concealed 
weapons  since  a  street-duel  in  his  boyhood  when  several  inno- 
cent onlookers  had  been  killed,  among  them  a  child.  More- 
over, the  Havre  de  Gravians  were  good  sportsmen,  who  would 
as  soon  shoot  through  the  windows  of  the  Parsonage  as  kill 
birds  in  the  nesting  season.  Therefore,  the  shooting  must 
have  been  done  by  some  visitor.  .  .  . 

Perhaps,  in  his  three  hours'  absence,  some  one  from  the 
city  had  arrived  at  the  Swiss  chalet.  True,  they  did  not 
expect  the  Cormorant;  she  could  arrive  at  this  time  only  un- 
der the  most  favorable  circumstances.  And,  as  Captain 
Danny  had  prophesied,  these  were  unlikely  in  that  season. 
But,  even  so,  Arnold  knew  of  Archie's  fretful  worry,  the  over- 
due bills  he  was  having  difficulty  in  keeping  from  his  uncle. 
Then  there  was  the  greedy  impatience  of  Mother  Mybus  as 
evidenced  in  certain  guarded  scrawls  received  at  the  village 
post-office.  Archie,  however,  was  a  native  and  would  not  be 
guilty  of  shooting  out  of  season,  and  Mother  was  not  likely  to 
be  a  marksman,  nor  blind  Nikko.  So  he  dismissed  that  idea. 

But,  when  he  had  moored  the  cruiser  in  Rocky  Cove,  rowing 
ashore  in  the  dingey,  he  heard  a  shot  from  the  bluff  above, 
and  as  he  neared  the  top  saw  two  city-dressed  men  sitting  at 
ease  on  his  little  porch.  Their  feet  were  on  the  rail,  one  was 
loading  an  automatic  revolver.  He  ran  at  them  enraged — 
and  looked  upon  M.  M.  Cagey  and  the  Phony  Kid,  attired  in 
the  very  latest  "nobby"  styles  for  men. 

"We've  been  waitin'  a  couple  of  hours  for  you,  me  lord," 
said  Pink,  putting  the  revolver  into  a  hip-pocket.  "And  I 
was  showing  the  sucker  here  what  would  happen  if  any  bright 
little  guy  got  it  into  his  head  to  try  an'  stop  us  from  landing 
our  black  mud  from  our  little  ship-ahoy !"  He  shook  hands, 
as  did  Beau. 

Arnold  was  too  amazed  at  their  presence  and  their  knowl- 
edge of  the  secret  to  notice  that  Pink's  pronunciation  had 
vastly  improved  and  that  he  bad  begun  to  enunciate  his  words 


356  God's  Man 

instead  of  letting  them  rattle  against  the  roof  of  his  mouth. 
Pink  had  lost  none  of  his  ambition  since  deprived  of  the  edu- 
cating example  of  Arnold ;  rather  through  his  new  association 
at  the  Sydenham  had  been  goaded  to  concentration  and  self- 
control  in  the  matter  of  speech  and  conduct.  There  remained 
to  be  remedied  only  his  scanty  vocabulary. 

He  did  not  trust  to  this  to  answer  the  many  questions 
summed  up  in  Arnold's  amazement,  but  handed  him  a  thumb- 
marked  envelope.  This  was  addressed  in  Mother's  scanty 
scrawl,  one  that  robbed  letters  of  all  save  labored  outlines.  A 
knowledge  of  etiquette  not  to  be  expected  of  the  proprietor  of 
such  hieroglyphics, — the  envelope  was  sealed.  As  Arnold 
ripped  it  with  thumb  and  forefinger  a  whitish  paper  dropped 
therefrom.  Pink  picked  it  up  while  Arnold  read  the  other 
inclosure,  a  note  that  informed  him  that  Messrs.  Frank  Nolan 
and  B.  Markowitz  were  to  act  as  Mother's  representatives  in 
"he  knew  what."  They  would  explain  and  the  inclosed  mes- 
sage would  do  the  rest.  As  he  looked  up  Pink  put  the  whitish 
slip  into  his  hand : 


Wireless  company.     Twenty  dollars  and  eighty  cents 
collect.    Red  Reef,  Delaware,  from  S.  S.  Imranduna. 


"Cormorant,  clipper  yacht,  alters  course  to  approach 
and  megaphone  as  follows:  'Favorable  winds,  should 
arrive  Nantucket  twentieth  latest.  Please  forward  to 
Albatross,  New  York.' " 


This  latter  was  a  cable  address  registered  by  Arnold  and 
given  to  Captain  Danny  before  leaving.  On  his  visit  to 
Mother  Mybus  a  few  days  before  Arnold  had  advised  sending 
a  messenger  each  morning  to  inquire  at  the  cable-office  for 
possible  telegrams.  Evidently  she  had  done  so. 


The  Wireless  Message  357 

"This  Nantucket's  near  Boston  ?"  half -stated,  half -inquired 
Beau  as  Arnold  looked  up  again.  Arnold  nodded,  then  went 
within,  wheeled  out  the  telescope  on  its  stand  and  pointed  it 
to  sweep  the  Sound  in  the  direction  of  the  ocean. 

"I  was  right  as  usual,  Saphead,"  commented  Pink,  further 
excoriating  Beau  with  some  allusions  to  his  general  lack  of 
comprehension  and  intelligence.  "For,  as  I  said  to  the  old 
dame,  why  in  hell  should  he  want  to  go  to  Nantucket  ? 

"  'There  was  a  young  man  of  Nantucket, 
Who  had  a  head  shaped  like  a  bucket, 
Like  a  bucket  is  good, 
For  his  head  was  of  wood, 
If  you  asked  him  to  think,  he  would  muck  it/ 

"That's  Beau,  all  right.  I  made  that  up  coming  down  in 
the  train.  First  I  had — 

"  'Like  a  bucket,  again, 
He  had  water  for  brain/ 

"But  I  think  the  other's  better.  Some  poet,  hey?  I  used 
to  make  up  little  pomes  when  I  was  grabbing  Helen  Darling. 
She  was  one  of  those  sentimental  broads  and  she  fell  for  it. 
.  .  .  Could  a  poor  but  honest  lad  make  any  money  writing 
pomes  ?" 

"You  think  the  Captain  on'y  put  in  that  Nantucket  for  a 
blind  steer,  Mr.  Arnold,"  asked  Beau,  disregarding  him; 
"sorta  throw  anybody  off  the  track  if  they  suspicioned  any- 
thing? And  he's  coming  right  here  like  was  arranged? 
That's  what  Pink  thinks." 

"That's  what  anybody  thinks  who's  got  a  nut  on  him  in- 
stead of  a  cold-storage  tank,"  returned  Pink  rudely.  "The 
Captain  probably  figured  he  took  a  long  chance  wirelessing, 
anyway.  ISTantucket's  two  days'  sailing  from  here,  I  found 
out,"  he  added,  addressing  Arnold.  "That  means  he  oughta 


358  God's  Man 

show  by  the  eighteenth.  But  he  says  'twentieth,  the  latest' — • 
so  he  might  be  here  to-night  or  to-morrow  or  any  time.  The 
Old  One  said  something  about  signaling — " 

"Yes,"  returned  Arnold  shortly.  He  resented  the  intru- 
sion of  this  pair  into  his  quiet  and  peace  and  the  unpleasant 
reverie  that  their  dead  coot  had  cost  him.  Pink's  conversa- 
tion had  amused  him  in  the  city,  but  it  was  as  out  of  place 
here  as  his  ignorance  of  the  game-laws. 

Nor  was  the  news  that  he  brought  agreeable.  That  sense 
of  burning  injustice  done  him  by  circumstances;  that  desire 
to  rebel,  to  smash  hypocritical  laws  that  protected  only  the 
rich,  had  faded  from  Arnold.  In  his  solitude,  in  his  nights 
at  the  Parsonage,  in  his  few  dealings  with  the  simple,  homely 
folk  about  Havre  de  Grace,  his  rage  with  humanity  had  found 
little  to  feed  on.  He  was  removed  from  the  exposition  of 
demagogic  ignorance  and  oppression,  plutocratic  ostentation 
and  greed,  the  hypocrisy  of  respectability  and  religion.  There 
was  very  little  fault  to  find  with  the  simple  social  system  of 
his  native  heath — he  could  evoke  his  former  righteous  rage 
only  by  remembering  civic  indignities;  and  as  one  does  not 
willingly  recall  unpleasant  memories,  this  is  why  he  could  not 
write  in  the  fine  frenzy  he  had  planned.  There  had  been  no 
crystallization ;  he  could  see  only  the  segregated  incidents,  not 
the  reason  for  them;  could  only  rage  unwittingly.  As  the 
peninsular  philosopher  had  said,  he  did  not  know  Why. 
.  .  .  Therefore  he  had  taken  the  path  of  evasion,  what 
another  has  called  the  Great  White  Logic.  It  did  not  matter ; 
nothing  mattered.  .  .  . 

But,  without  that  fine  frenzy,  he  saw  the  whole  affair  of  the 
Cormorant  not  as  a  justified  rebellion,  not  as  an  equalizing 
of  opportunity  by  disregarding  the  law,  but  as  the  sordid 
sneaking  business  it  was — worthy  a  penniless  Waldemar  or 
Hartogensis,  but  unworthy  a  L'Hommedieu,  penniless  or  even 
starving.  And  the  pitiful  excuse  of  saving  Archie !  For 
what?  So  that  a  shallow,  petty,  overdressed  girl  might  play 
Lady  of  the  Manor. 


The  Wireless  Message  359 

"Looks  like  he  burned  down  without  any  insurance,"  com- 
mented Pink,  as  Arnold,  moody  and  downcast,  went  within 
to  telephone  to  Hugo  and  Archie  in  the  city.  "We're  just  as 
welcome  here  as  we'd  be  in  the  street.  Get  down  and  let  him 
wipe  his  tootsies  on  you,  Beau,  and  be  sure  and  apologize  for 
not  having  had  your  clothes  dry-cleaned  before  you  had  the 
nerve  to  want  to  be  his  door-mat.  .  .  .  For  a  man  who 
stands  to  win  ten  grands  or  more  as  soon  as  we  get  that  much 
marketed,  he  acts  as  funny  as  a  funeral.  Wonder  if  he'll  let 
us  go  on  living  if  we  ask  him  pretty-pretty?"  All  of  which 
was  intended  for  Arnold's  ears  as  he  sat  at  his  writing-table 
by  the  open  window,  waiting  for  the  long-distance  operator  to 
connect  him. 

He  looked  up  and  smiled,  albeit  with  an  effort. 

"The  sun's  coming  out  late  to-day,  Beau — look,"  said  the 
irrepressible  Pink,  pointing.  "That  friendly  look's  just 
about  an  hour  overdue,  Sir  Lionel  de  Launcelot.  What's 
eating  you,  anyway?  Have  they  stolen  your  best  child  and 
hidden  it  in  the  naughty  forest?  Or — curses — has  Beatrix 
betrayed  you?"  This  time  Arnold's  smile  was  less  mechan- 
ical, and  he  was  about  to  add  to  it,  when  he  was  connected 
with  Beulah  Roberts'  apartment.  The  maid  answered  for 
her  mistress,  who  evidently  sat  near,  that  Mr.  Waldemar  was 
not  expected  for  an  hour. 

"I  must  speak  to  him  this  afternoon.  It's  very  im- 
portant. .  .  .  Tell  him  Havre  de  Grace,  Number  81. 
We've  got  to  get  hold  of  the  two  of  them,"  he  added  to  his 
visitors,  as  he  hung  up.  Then,  "Stuyvesant  481 — J,"  when 
he  again  got  the  ear  of  the  town  operator. 

"You  mean  that  friend  of  yours  with  the  car  ?"  asked  Pink. 
It  was  in  Hugo's  machine  that  the  Cormorant's  cargo  was  to 
be  transferred  to  New  York,  a  matter  of  many  trips,  even  to 
that  car,  an  80-90  French  tourer. 

Arnold  nodded,  while  he  asked  the  hall  man  at  Hugo's 
apartment-house  to  connect  him  with  that  young  gentleman. 
From  his  expression  the  listeners  imagined  he  had  been  fortu- 


360  God's  Man 

nate,  which  was  confirmed  by  hurried  directions  given  almost 
immediately  after. 

"You're  to  get  Archie  and  be  down  here  before  dark.  .  .  . 
(Yes,  of  course  it's  Arnold.)  The  car? — certainly!  Well, 
we  can't  wait  for  that  this  trip.  Come  down  in  the  touring 
body.  You've  got  a  good  top  with  side  and  back  curtains, 
haven't  you?  .  .  .  Well,  that'll  do  for  the  first  trip.  It'll 
have  to  do.  ...  Oh,  Hugo,  don't  be  a  silly  goat!  Of 
course,  you're  not  to  bring  the  chauffeur.  You  know  as  much 
about  a  car  as  he  does.  Let  him  stay  and  run  the  hired  car 
for  her,  if  her  highness  can't  get  along  with  humble  taxicabs. 
.  .  .  Too  bad  about  her.  I'd  hate  to  try  to  carry  all  the 
nickels  she  spent  on  trolley-rides  before  she  met  you.  But 
I'm  wasting  time.  You  don't  seem  to  realize  how  important 
this  is.  Never  mind,  that's  enough.  Eemember,  you're  talk- 
ing on  the  phone.  Now  go  get  Archie  right  away.  Don't 
tell  your  father  you're  coming — no!  Yes,  I  heard  he  was 
down  here  for  a  rest.  .  .  .  Archie  either.  Hurry  now. 
Don't  argue.  I'll  explain  when  you  get  here.  Good-fry."  He 
hung  up  in  a  rage. 

"Wish  I  was  him,"  said  Pink  in  pretended  wistfulness. 
"When  I  was  broke  I  could  go  hire  myself  out  in  one  of  those 
side-shows  where  you  throw  three  cocoanuts  for  a  nickel  at 
the  nigger's  head.  They'd  be  glad  to  get  a  head  like  his. 
Wouldn't  have  to  keep  repainting  it  all  the  time  or  anything. 
.  .  .  'Can  he  bring  his  chauffeur' — oh,  Mother,  Mother, 
pin  a  rose  on  me,  for  I'm  just  as  deVlish  as  I — can — be !" 

"I  wouldn't  advise  you  to  let  him  hear  you.  He's  only 
about  six  feet  three  and  weighs  two  hundred  and  ten,"  said 
Arnold.  "And  now,  since  you  fellows  are  here,  I  suppose  you 
want  something  to  eat.  .  .  .  If  s  getting  late — "  for,  al- 
though the  days  were  long,  the  sun  was  low  in  the  west  and 
the  hour  was  five  or  more.  "I  always  eat  about  six,  and 
dinners  don't  leap  out  of  the  oven  already  cooked,  you  know — 
especially  for  three  people." 

"Say,"  commented  Beau,  in  admiration  not  unmixed  with 


The  Wireless  Message  361 

a  little  awe.  "Yon  take  it  cool,  I'm  a  son-of-a-gun  if  you 
don't.  Anybody  'ud  think  he'd  been  a  burglar  all  his  life, 
hey,  sucker?'*' 

"Just  a  natural-born  tendency  to  larceny,"  agreed  Pink. 
"As  full  of  it  as  a  Fifth  Avenue  church  vestry.  And,  speak- 
ing of  churches,  I'm  as  empty  as  one.  That  is,  the 
average  New  York  church;  they're  turning  most  of  'em  into 
garages  and  moving-picture  shows,  except  on  the  Avenue, 
where  all  the  Captain  Kidds  of  Wall  Street  try  to  kid  the 
Almighty,  too — Kidd — kid — pretty  good — what  ?" 

"Stop  trifling  with  suicide,  sucker/'  said  Beau  wearily. 

"You  gotta  hand  it  to  me — I'm  full  of  pomes  and  wit  to- 
day/' continued  Pink  vivaciously.  "Guess  it's  the  country 
air.  I  feel  as  good  as  a  cat  that's  just  cleaned  up  the  ice-box. 
.  .  .  Say,  Duke,  I  dropped  in  among  those  Fifth  Avenue 
burglars  once,  just  to  see  if  I  couldn't  cop  a  little  of  their 
classy  work — sort  of  on  the  up-and-up,  you  know,  showing  I'm 
as  ambitious  a  little  fellow  as  ever  sung  a  hymn.  I  wanted 
to  see  how  the  guys  who,  when  they  got  in  the  heavenly  line- 
up on  Judgment  Day,  will  have  to  answer  to  every  crime  in- 
cluding arson  and  mayhem,  try  to  get  away  with  that  pious 
stuff,  too.  And,  sure  enough,  I  don't  set  there  ten  minutes — 
I  come  late — but  what  a  hoary-headed  old  pirate  prods  me  in 
the  stomach  with  one  of  those  boxes  that's  got  a  handle  like 
a  roulette-rake,  and  as  I  look  up  who  do  I  see  but  Mr.  J.  B. 
Ramsbotham,  Esquire. 

"Only  the  day  before  the  papers  were  full  of  how  he  grabbed 
that  Montana  mine  away  from  two  brothers  that  sweat  ten 
years  for  it — forecloses,  or  calls  a  loan  or  something — and 
sells  it  to  the  Copper  Trust  for  'steen  millions.  And  there 
he  is  trying  to  collect  the  Lord's  money,  too.  And  then  peo- 
ple wonder  why  they're  closing  the  churches  down-town?" 
Pink  spat  disgustedly.  "Him  with  the  poor-box.  It  'ud 
give  me  a  laugh  if  it  didn't  make  me  so  durned  mad. 

"But,"  he  grinned,  "I  give  some  of  the  others  a  laugh  at 
that.  I  took  out  half  a  caser  and  looked  him  in  the  eye. 


362  God's  Man 

'If  I  give  you  this  four  bits/  I  says,  'will  you  promise  not  to 
get  away  with  fort}r-nine  cents  of  it  between  here  and  the 
altar  ?'  Say,  you  oughta  seen  the  sexton — or  whatever  he  was 
— run  me  out.  I  bet  he  was  a  copper  dressed  up.  Sure ! 
One  of  Kamsbotham's  private  bulls.  He  don't  dare  move  a 
step  without  a  brace  of  'em  at  his  back." 

The  impudence  and  cynicism  of  the  young  rogue  reawaked 
in  Arnold  something  missing  for  the  last  months,  some- 
thing of  his  old  indignation.  He  frowned,  smiled,  seemed 
about  to  say  something,  changed  his  mind  and  led  them  to 
one  of  the  rooms  he  had  kept  in  reserve  for  visitors.  It  con- 
tained four  camp-beds,  folded  and  propped  against  the  wall, 
a  pile  of  blankets  on  a  closet-shelf,  some  shaving  mirrors  hung 
near  the  windows,  a  clothes-press,  a  washstand ;  most  of  which 
had  been  donated  by  his  mother  from  the  excess  at  the  Par- 
sonage. 

"The  bathroom's  next  door,"  said  Arnold,  "and  these  beds 
aren't  uncomfortable.  I  see  you  brought  dressing- 


"Yes,"  grumbled  Beau,  "and  some  job  it  was  lugging  them 
'cross  lots  from  the  town.  We  didn't  want  anybody  to  know 
where  we  were  aiming  for,  so  we  couldn't  hire  a  team  or  any- 
thing. I  didn't  see  the  use  of  it ;  it  was  the  sucker's  idear — '* 

"You  poor  simp,"  returned  Pink,  who  was  shedding  his 
city  clothes  in  favor  of  khaki  riding-trousers  and  a  flannel 
shirt.  "Don't  you  realize  you've  got  a  chance  to  be  a  regular 
hero  like  you  read  about  ?  Do  you  want  to  spoil  it  all  with 
your  comic  Forty-second  Street  clothes,  you  jay?"  He  had 
added  to  his  new  attire  a  pair  of  English  puttees  that  were 
turning  his  slim  legs  into  a  pair  of  olive-tinted  cylinders. 
"Suppose  we  got  nailed  by  the  Customs  people  or  those  Eeve- 
nue  officers  in  their  jim-dandy  uniforms?  What  would  the 
public  think  of  a  desperate  smuggler  in  a  Dunlop  cady  and  a 
wing  collar  and  a  loud  vest  and  light  cloth-top  patent  leath- 
ers ?  Why,  you'd  crab  the  whole  business.  Nobody  has  any 
sympathy  for  that  kind  of  lice.  .  .  ." 


The  Wireless  Message  363 

He  smoothed  down  the  Byronic  collar  of  his  flannel  shirt 
and  knotted  the  attached  cord  so  that  its  tassels  became  a 
substitute  for  a  necktie.  A  soft  hat  of  Italian  make  pulled 
down  over  his  brows,  he  surveyed  his  mirrored  likeness  with 
approval. 

"There's  a  gink  that  looks  like  he  might  be  something  be- 
sides a  ribbon  clerk,"  he  said  educatively.  He  was  so  thor- 
oughly in  earnest  about  it  that  Arnold  smothered  his  laugh- 
ter and  went  off  to  prepare  their  meal.  Presently  they  joined 
him,  Beau's  attire  now  a  replica  of  Pink's,  except  for  the  put- 
tees. Beau  wore  canvas  leggings.  Arnold  set  them  paring 
potatoes  and  shelling  peas;  he  himself  ground  the  coffee  and 
prepared  the  meat.  ...  It  was  not  until  they  sat  down 
to  dinner  that  he  asked  the  question  uppermost  in  his  mind. 

"Aren't  you  at  Sydenham's  any  more — and  little  Miss 
Sonia?" 

"You  are  wondering  how  we  happen  to  be  cut  in  on  this 
deal,  ain't  that  it?"  returned  Pink.  "Tell  him,  Beau."  And 
he  attacked  the  steak  and  lyonnaise  potatoes,  filling  his  mouth 
to  incapacitate  him  for  narration.  Beau  was  too  glad  of  the 
chance  to  take  stage  center  to  note  the  trick  that  was  to  de- 
fraud him  of  a  large  portion  of  his  dinner. 

"You  might  know  the  coppers  wouldn't  let  us  stay  square, 
Mr.  Arnold,"  he  complained,  putting  down  knife  and  fork. 
"There  we  were  getting  forty  a  week  apiece,  only  Sonny  got 
fifty.  And  private  lessons  to  these  society  dames  and  Broad- 
way frails  were  just  starting  to  get  us  some  important  dough. 
It  looked  too  good  to  last  and  I  told  Pink  so — ; 

"You  mean  I  told  you  so,"  murmured  Pink  out  of  a  full 
mouth.  "Don't  try  to  convince  anybody  you're  one  of  the 
wise  ones.  Because  your  map  tips  you  off.  .  .  ."  And 
he  went  on  eating. 

"Well,  maybe  you  told  me,  too,"  granted  Beau  indulgently. 
"Anyway,  we  wasn't  surprised  when  the  pavement  flew  up 
and  hit  us  in  the  face,  'cause  we  were  looking  for  it.  One 
day  a  big  burly  in  a  Tux  is  standing  around  givin'  the  joint 


364  God's  Man 

the  once-over,  and  I  made  him  for  a  State's  Evidence  louse 
that's  got  a  bunch  of  good  fellows  jammed  into  the  song- 
factory  up  the  river.  So  I  sends  a  waiter  for  the  manager — " 

"He  means  7  sent  for  him,"  interposed  Pink,  incensed.  "If 
that's  the  way  you're  going  to  tell  it — " 

"Well,  you  sent  for  him,  then,"  agreed  Beau,  and  galloped 
on :  "  'That  guy  over  there  is  a  gun — a  crook,'  I  said  to  the 
manager.  'And  you  better  git  him  out  of  here  before  he  puts 
a  diamond  tarara  in  his  pocket  or  steals  an  automobile,'  we 
says.  .  .  .  'Why,  that's  the  new  house-detective,'  says  the 
manager.  <Mr.  Pettigrew  sent  him  here' — " 

"This  Pettigrew,"  interpolated  Pink,  gulping  coffee,  "is 
the  society  man  whose  backing  the  joint  because  he's  stuck  on 
the  star  turkey-trotter — a  pretty  little  piece  of  goods  she  is, 
too,  but  stuck  on  another  guy,  though  Pettigrew  don't  know  it, 
being  a  fresh-water  oyster  that  emits  pearls  at  every  gasp. 
And  being  that  kind  of  a  simp,  he's  likewise  in  one  of  these 
White  Slave  Investigating  Committees,  and  it  appears  this 
stool-pigeon  in  the  dinner-coat — only  Harlem  stews  say  'Tux- 
edo,' eh,  Sir  Launcelot? — has  been  makin'  soft  money  swear- 
ing to  White-Slave  charges  against  all  the  madams  that  ever 
staked  him  to  the  eats  in  the  back-kitchen.  That's  how  he 
got  in  with  Pettigrew  and  got  this  house-detective  job.  And 
from  what  the  manager  says  Pettigrew  thinks  he's  got  wings 
under  the  Moe  Levy  padding  in  his  shoulders — " 

"Say — you  finish  it,"  said  Beau  irritably. 

"No,"  said  Pink,  with  a  magnanimous  gesture,  "go  ahead, 
my  boy,"  and  started  on  the  cheese. 

"Well,  this  Gammage — that's  the  stool's  name — it  ain't 
very  long  before  he  gets  wise  to  us  tipping  him  off.  Anyhow, 
whenever  we  happened  to  be  near  him  in  a  crowd  Pink  would 
cop  his  souper.  That's  how  they  came  to  call  him  'Pink,' 
copping  Pinkerton  bulls'  watches  on  the  race-track  and  send- 
ing 'em  to  the  managers  to  show  'em  how  'The  Eye  that 
Never  Sleeps'  took  forty  winks  now  and  then.  Well,  when  a 
crowd  of  waiters  were  around  at  closing  time  we'd  say  to  him : 


The  Wireless  Message  365 

'Oh,  Mr.  Detective,  some  ornery  thief  stole  your  watch,  but 
we  got  it  back  for  you,  so  we  did.  Why  don't  you  complain 
to  the  police  about  those  sassy  devils?  .  .  .'  And  of 
course  that  made  him  sore.  So  one  day,  when  some  dame 
lost  her  ring,  he  swears  he  saw  us  turn  the  trick.  Then  he 
gets  some  harness  coppers  to  identify  us  as  thieves — all  but 
Sonny,  who  he's  kinda  stuck  on.  And  that  gets  us  fired  by 
this  Pettigrew  guy,  who  reads  us  a  lecture  along  with  it,  and 
won't  listen  to  nothing  against  Gammage.  We  pretty  near 
got  in  the  hoose-gow  over  it  'cause  we  couldn't  kick  back  the 
hock-rock.  But  Pettigrew's  too  soft-hearted  a  gink  to  let  us 
do  time,  so  he  squares  the  squeal  by  buying  her  a  new  one. 
.  .  .  Of  course,  we  laid  for  Gammage,"  he  added  virtu- 
ously. .  .  . 

"And,  of  course,  we  gave  him  the  walloping  of  his  life.  I 
bent  this  cannon  of  mine  into  a  'Z'  on  the  front  of  his  face 
and  straightened  it  out  on  the  back  of  his  head.  He  won't 
smile  in  a  hurry,"  said  Pink,  with  a  vicious  grin.  "Not  until 
the  dentist  puts  in  four  front  tusks,  he  won't.  .  .  .  And 
of  course  there  was  nothing  to  it  then  but  to  tear  down  to 
the  old  dame  and  head  off  the  rap  from  headquarters.  We 
knew  what  was  coming  from  a  guy  like  Gammage — assault 
with  intent  to  kill  and  a  couple  of  cannon  planted  on  us  by 
the  coppers  who  made  the  arrest  so's  to  be  sure  we'd  get  a  two- 
years'  bit  under  that  new  concealed  weapons  law.  .  .  . 
Great  thing  for  coppers  that  law  is.  If  they  want  to  settle 
somebody,  all  they  got  to  do  is  drop  a  cannon  in  his  kick.  It's 
better  than  dropping  watches,  'cause  you  might  have  an  alibi 
about  where  you  was  when  the  watch  was  stolen.  But  a  gun — 
bingo !  You're  gone." 

All  doubts  as  to  the  justification  of  the  Cormorant  ven- 
ture fled  Arnold.  "And  so  I  suppose  you  'planned  a  little 
burglary  or  forged  a  little  check  or  slew  a  little  baby  for  the 
coral  round  its  neck'  since  you  met  so  much  encouragement 
in  your  attempt  to  be  honest,"  he  invited.  He  was  surprised 
to  have  his  question  met  by  a  silence  of  some  duration,  which 


366  God's  Man 

from  the  volatile  Beau  and  the  voluble  Pink  was  unprece- 
dented. 

Presently  Pink  arose  and  walked  to  the  open  window  to 
stare  at  the  sunlit  waters  rolling  like  molten  metal  under  the 
great  round  ball  of  Japanese  red  and  dashing  up  showers  of 
sparks  on  the  pebbles  of  the  beach  below.  Beau  seemed  in- 
terested in  the  glowing  tip  of  his  cigarette  and  the  nail  of  his 
forefinger. 

"I  suppose  old  Nikko's  got  the  right  idea,"  said  Pink  pres- 
ently, apparently  addressing  the  pale  horns  of  a  tiny  crescent 
that  was  riding  the  northern  cloud-banks  at  a  furious  gallop 
to  arrive  in  time  to  bid  the  red  ball  au  revoir.  <r5fes,  I  sup- 
pose old  Nikko's  right  with  that  talk  of  his  about  rebellion.  I 
used  to  kid  him  a  lot  about  it  at  first.  Thought  he  was  nuts. 
I  was  saying  that  to  Beau  only  the  other  day,  wasn't  I,  son  ?" 
It  was  the  first  time  Arnold  had  seen  the  two  betray  any  ten- 
derness toward  each  other.  Beau  nodded  in  a  way  to  suggest 
that  if  he  were  nearer  he  would  put  a  hand  on  Pink's  shoulder. 
"Yes,  sir,  I  said  to  Beau  that  it  about  looked  like  we  grifters 
had  a  damn  good  right  to  nick  a  front  or  peel  a  poke  so  long 
as  "Wall  Street  and  Washington  were  picking  everybody's 
pockets.  Not  that  we  care  so  long  as  they  leave  something 
for  somebody  else.  But  they  don't.  And  when  they  come 
to  us  and  say,  'Now,  be  good  boys  and  work  hard  all  day,  and 
we'll  let  you  go  on  working  hard  all  your  life  so  when  you  die 
you  can  go  to  Heaven  and  be  rewarded' — when  they  pull  that 
stuff  it  gets  my  goat.  If  I'd  been  honest  all  my  life  I  might 
be  married  to  some  little  woman  with  wrinkles  from  doing  her 
own  washing  and  ironing  and  minding  the  house  and  sitting 
up  nights  to  cut  down  my  clothes  so  the  kid  'ull  have  some- 
thing to  go  to  school  in.  And  after  sitting  in  the  shop  all  day 
and  almost  all  night,  selling  goods  and  making  cigars,  what 
would  I  be  at  fifty  ?  Just  fixed  so  the  landlord  can  run  me 
out  'cause  my  rent  ain't  been  paid  for  three  months,  and  so 
the  butcher  could  get  an  attachment  on  my  stock.  .  .  . 
That's  what  happened  to  my  old  man  after  thirty-five  years 


The  Wireless  Message  367 

of  honest  work.  I'm  supporting  him  now,  have  been  for 
years.  He  thinks  I  am  a  jewelry  salesman.  And  I've  got 
two  kid  brothers  learning  a  trade  they  couldn't  afford  to  learn 
if  I  was  honest.  And  another  in  college,  studying  civil-en- 
gineering, and  my  sister,  'stead  of  going  into  some  sweatshop 
and  losing  her  looks,  or  into  some  store  and  losing  her  sweet 
little  ways,  or  into  some  chorus  and  losing  her  virtue — well, 
I  give  her  an  education  and  she  grabbed  a  good  guy  for  her- 
self— son  of  a  big  wholesale  baker  and  general  manager.  Yes, 
sir,  Sis  is  married  two  years  now  and  got  one  grand  little  kid. 
Named  after  me,  whadda  you  know  about  that? — Frank 
Nolan  Middenkoff — German,  her  fellow's  father  is.  ... 
Now  I  suppose  somebody's  going  to  tell  me  I  oughta  gone 
and  been  an  A.  D.  T.  kid  or  a  bundle-boy  in  a  department- 
store,  and  now  I'd  be  driving  a  wagon  like  a  gentleman  and 
getting  twelve  per,  and  the  other  kids — gee ! — I  hate  to  think 
what  'ud  happened  to  them!  I  got  some  advantages  being 
the  eldest  and  in  the  eighth  grade  at  school  before  we  bust 
up — burst,  damn  it,  burst,  burst,  burst:  kick  me,  Beau,  will 
you,  boy  ?" 

And  Beau,  gravely  arose  and  kicked  him,  not  violently  nor 
wildly  but  judicially  and  accurately.  "That  *burst'  is  the 
worse,"  he  confided  to  Arnold,  who  was  amused  at  this  climax 
to  his  sociology.  "I  slip  up  on  'burst'  every  time.  And  it's 
got  to  stop.  .  .  .  Anyway,  as  I  said  to  Beau,  if  those 
pirates  who're  running  things  expect  us  fellows  to  harness 
up  like  horses  for  no  pay  except  a  stall  to  sleep  in  and  about 
half  the  hay  we  need  to  work  on,  they've  got  the  wrong  dope." 

"And  the  worst  of  it>  the  stall  ain't  even  clean,  let  alone 
big,"  confirmed  Beau.  "And  the  hay's  the  lousiest  the  law 
allows.  .  .  .  You  ought  to  seen  my  home,  Mr.  Arnold. 
Pink  had  more'n  me.  My  mother  cooked  in  the  bedroom,  and 
we  didn't  get  a  bath  more'n  once  a  month  'cause  there  never 
was  enough  heat  to  give  you  hot  water — and  before  you  got 
into  the  tub,  you  had  to  throw  about  a  million  water-roaches 
out  of  it.  I  was  glad  to  go  to  school  in  winter  'cause  it  was 


368  God's  Man 

warm — that's  why  those  East-side  schools  are  so  crowded — 
no  place  like  home — thank  God !  And  people  say :  *Why 
don't  they  go  live  in  the  country.'  Listen:  they  never  have 
two  dollars  ahead,  let  alone  enough  to  pay  car  fare  and  keep 
'em  while  they  git  a  job.  And  suppose  you're  a  certain  kind 
of  worker  and  there's  no  work  for  that  kind  of  worker  in  the 
country?  A  hired  man  on  a  farm — a  green  hand — d'you 
think  Tie's  going  to  be  allowed  to  have  a  wife  and  child  ?  .  .  . 
Ain't  I  heard  my  old  man  and  my  mother  talk  about  the 
country  for  hours?  Gee!"  .  .  .  His  look  expressed  un- 
utterable disgust. 

"You  give  half  of  'em  a  chance  to  live  in  the  country  and 
they'll  go  so  fast  it'll  make  your  head  swim.  But  they  blow 
over  from  Europe  in  those  cattleships  at  a  sawbuck  a  head 
sometimes  and  with  jest  about  enough  to  land.  And  it's 
to  the  employers'  interests  to  give  'em  a  job  quick  and  keep 
'em  in  the  city  so  the  price  for  unskilled  labor  won't  go  up. 
Look  at  the  Swedes  and  Germans.  They've  got  immigrant 
organizations  and  bureaus  back  of  them.  They  don't  stop  in 
New  York — they  go  on  out  to  Wisconsin  and  the  Middle 
West,  where  farm  jobs  are  waitin'  for  'em — or  little  farms, 
or  truck-gardens.  .  .  .  People  ain't  so  crazy  to  stick  in 
the  town  of  the  Big  Noise — which  is  sure  a  False  Alarm.  It's 
like  Monte  Carlo.  They  go  there  to  make  money  and 
don't."  .  .  . 

Arnold  listened  while  Pink  took  up  the  attack  again;  lis- 
tened, head  in  hand,  while  the  two  youths  in  the  khaki  suits, 
presenting  the  strange  anomaly  of  being  in  earnest,  told  of 
the  adventures  of  their  strictly  honest  parents  in  their  at- 
tempts to  find  food  and  shelter  for  their  families — which  had 
resulted  in  giving  both  boys  a  hearty  distaste  for  honest  toil 
and  a  sorrowful  contempt  for  their  forebears'  lack  of  intelli- 
gence in  continuing  in  ways  that  promised  so  little  of  either 
profit  or  pleasure — a  promise  faithfully  fulfilled.  .  .  . 

And,  as  he  listened,  he  saw  the  tragedy  of  America  unroll 
in  all  its  pitiful  comedy — for  comedy  is  only  the  dwarf  of 


•The  Wireless  Message  369 

tragedy,  and  these  little  people  who  hoped  so  much  were 
dwarfs — dwarfs  in  mind — that  they  could  go  on  hoping 
against  such  odds.  And  being  dwarfs,  the  stupid  giants — 
giants  only  because  the  others  were  dwarfs — could  slay  them. 
Then  the  sun  went  down  and  the  moon  came  up :  the  song- 
birds sang  and  the  crickets  chirped :  all  the  million  members 
of  the  insect  orchestra  tuned  up  their  tiny  instruments  and 
made  a  long  sweet  song.  And  the  wind  and  the  trees 
joined  in  and  the  surf  on  the  beach  contributed  its  minor 
chord.  And  while  a  world  of  radiant  darkness  sang  to  the 
sheen  of  the  moon  and  the  shine  of  the  stars,  that  other  world, 
that  dark-lighted  world,  quarreled  and  killed — killed  be- 
cause it  knew  no  better,  no  better  than  when  a  Voice  on  Cal- 
vary had  cried  to  His  Father  to  forgive  them  for  they  know 
not  what  they  do. 


CHAPTER   THREE 

DENOUNCED 
I.    OUTSIDE  THE  PALE 

(if  i^^     ESS?  ACK  in  that  same  lighted  world, 

"  I  Ifilifhhihl  ~V>the  person  both  loathed  and  loved 

as  "Petty"— as  Arnold  could  bear 
personal  witness  after  eavesdrop- 
ping at  Clabber's — came  out  of 
Miss  Bobbie  Beulah's  apartment 
''in  Devonshire  Mansions,  a  grin 
on  his  face  and  a  crafty  look  in 
his  eyes.  He  hailed  a  hansom, 
taking  it  by  the  hour  when  he 
found  that  Mr.  Eugene  McKiss 
of  Police  Headquarters  was  not 
holding  court  in  his  favorite  ho- 
tel; visiting  in  turn  every  other 
hotel  restaurant,  each  cafe  and  cabaret  of  any  importance,  in 
Manhattan's  Montmartre.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Eoy  Schmucke,  from  having  been  "Petty"  to  so  many 
female  admirers,  was  "Petty  Schmucke"  even  to  the  manly 
loungers  who  hailed  him  jovially  on  his  entrance  to  each  bar 
and  cafe  on  this  night  that  he  searched  for  the  elusive  McKiss. 
The  nickname  should  have  been  enough  to  damn  him. 

As  he  passed  from  Curate's  Restaurant  on  this  night  of 
September  sixteenth,  a  policeman  in  uniform,  new  to  the  city, 
who  had  overheard  one  of  Master  Potty's  sidewalk  conversa- 
tions that  afternoon,  pointed  him  out  in  an  excited  whisper 


Denounced  371 

to  the  traffic  officer  at  the  corner,  suggesting  that  they  recom- 
mend to  Pleadquarters  that  this  dangerous  offender  be  kept 
under  surveillance. 

The  sophisticated  son  of  the  city  regarded  the  guileless  son 
of  the  soil  in  scornful  amaze.  "Ain't  you  wise  to  that  kind  of 
a  gink  yet  ?"  he  asked,  almost  sadly.  "Don't  you  know  nine- 
tenths  of  these  so-called  'guns'  and  'grifts'  couldn't  steal  any- 
thing from  a  chloroformed  cat?  Ever  hear  of  a  gambler's 
ace  in  his  sleeve — 'ace  in  the  hole/  they  call  it.  Well,  that 
goes  double  for  a  fellow  like  the  one  you  just  saw.  Find  the 
skirt,  kid,  find  the  skirt."  .  .  . 

It  is  not  difficult  to  explain  the  hold  of  such  a  young  reptile 
on  the  women  of  the  class  of  Miss  Beulah  Eoberts — though  it 
may  seem  so  in  the  case  of  other  women,  her  superiors  as  well 
as  inferiors — for  the  activities  of  the  Petties  take  in  the  "Ave- 
nue" as  well  as  the  "Lane."  It  is  a  fact  familiar  to  all  sci- 
entists, and  all  who  deal  in  feminine  psychology,  that  the 
morals  of  women,  the  average  woman  of  any  class,  granted  a 
semi-normal  prenatal  condition — are  known  to  be  only  what 
their  menfolk  make  them :  the  reflection  of  their  fathers'  mor- 
als or  those  of  their  husbands.  If  the  first  is  sufficiently  edi- 
fying, the  second  ordinarily  so,  high-mindedness  is  produced. 
Let  the  father  inspire  contempt,  and  the  husband's  hand  must 
be  firm  on  the  helm :  otherwise  unless  anchored  by  early  chil- 
dren she  drifts  with  the  first  winds  of  environment  and  oppor- 
tunity. 

Thus  Miss  Beulah  Roberts.  The  crimes  of  womanhood  are 
mostly  committed  between  the  time  when  maid  merges  into 
potential  mother  and  the  birth  of  the  first  child.  The  grati- 
fication of  the  aroused  maternal  instinct  being  denied  them 
because  of  poverty  or  policy,  the  Bobbies  grope  blindly  for  a 
substitute.  The  pain  of  the  gnawing  instincts  of  motherhood 
must  be  smothered,  the  pillows  piled  higher  at  each  muffled 
cry  of  the  thing  they  are  murdering.  Woman  is  an  extremist : 
if  she  drinks,  she  usually  drinks  too  much;  doctors  will  tell 
you  that  men  may  take  drugs  in  moderate  quantities  for  a 


372  God's  Man 

lifetime,  but  never  a  woman.  She  veers  between  total  absten- 
tion and  sensational  indulgence. 

But  there  is  the  natural  anodyne  of  fierce  affection  which 
no  drug  or  drink,  nor  any  other  sensation  may  equal.  In  that 
heady  intoxication  of  physical  passion  the  man  becomes  both 
lover  and  child.  But  Hugo  had,  at  best,  won  only  Bobbie's 
gratitude :  and  as  his  passion  for  her  increased  by  daily  prox- 
imity— his  mind  having  no  other  occupation  since  his  hope  of 
becoming  a  scientist  had  been  shattered — her  calm  friendship 
of  the  days  when  there  was  no  physical  bond  between  them 
must  take  refuge  in  pretense  lest  she  lose  the  luxury  she  had 
learned  to  love.  Now  pretense  if  continued  for  any  length  of 
time  develops  irritation  in  which  soon  inheres  dislike — that 
love  "pardons  all"  and  does  not  require  pretense  is  its  strong- 
est claim  to  duration. 

Had  Bobbie  loved  Hugo,  when  he  embraced  her  at  an  in- 
opportune moment,  she  would  not  have  feared  to  push  him 
away,  knowing  instinctively  that  in  another  mood  she  could 
make  up  for  this  seeming  coldness.  Growing  to  dislike  him, 
she  could  do  no  more  than  endure  his  caresses  at  any  time 
since  all  times  were  equally  distasteful.  Yet,  like  most  women 
who  are  slaves  of  habit  and  custom,  rather  the  loss  of  her 
freedom  than  of  her  luxuries:  therefore  the  discovery  of  her 
dislike  for  Hugo  made  her  clutch  for  an  anchor — and  vaguely 
she  understood  that  flesh  of  her  flesh  would  so  satisfy  her  need 
for  something  to  love  that  she  could  endure  being  loved. 
Marriage  or  no,  let  her  have  a  child.  But  poor  Hugo  was  too 
chivalrous  to  gratify  himself  at  what  convention  claimed  was 
her  ignominy  and  the  child's  shame:  he  had  read  too  many 
sentimental  novels,  seen  too  many  pathetic  plays.  .  .  .  And 
then,  she  began  to  dream  of  a  man  she  could  love,  to  look  for 
him  everywhere — although  she  was  unconscious  of  either  her 
desire  or  of  her  search. 

Nor  had  she  ever  imagined  that  this  Fairy  Prince,  when 
met,  would  be  unable,  least  of  all  unwilling,  to  give  her  luxury 
as  well  as  love.  Had  Eoy  Schmucke  been  so  unwise  as  to 


Denounced  373 

present  himself  as  a  prospective  lover,  how  scornfully  would 
she  have  sent  him  about  his  business.  But  he  and  his  kind 
knew  their  little  book — and  how  little  it  was ! 

At  first  he  had  been  merely  the  companion,  the  confidant, 
the  unobtrusive  escort  to  places  where  Hugo  considered  she 
should  not  go ;  all  the  while  making  himself  more  and  more  a 
part  of  her  daily  life,  breaking  the  monotony  of  its  boredom, 
going  to  her  primed  with  the  latest  gossip.  Like  an  actor  in 
the  wings  re-reading  his  part,  he  rehearsed  the  cynical  jests 
he  would  tell  her,  the  scornful  scandal:  particularly  endear- 
ing himself  because  he  was  never  amorous,  never  seized  the 
chance  of  propinquity  to  force  unwelcome  endearments.  .  .  . 

Curious  to  see  how  far  this  repression  could  be  trusted,  for 
she  never  doubted  it  was  repression,  she  began  to  receive  him 
in  tempting  deshabille,  would  pretend  the  taxi  had  jolted  her 
against  him,  would  give  him  an  occasional  chance  to  scent  the 
"perfume  of  her  presence"  (four  dollars  a  bottle)  .  .  . 
and,  rough  homage  once  rendered,  she  could  bewail  that  he  has 
"spoiled  everything,"  that  "all  men  are  alike  after  all,"  can 
mourn  aloud  the  lost  paradise  of  their  friendship. 

Should  the  indifference  continue  in  face  of  all  assaults,  she 
forgets  everything  else  in  the  horrible  suspicion  that  her  for- 
mer success  may  have  been  but  luck. 

So  many  and  so  strenuous  do  her  efforts  to  subdue  him  then 
become,  that  there  begins  an  interest  resembling  infatuation 
so  closely  that  experts  can  not  distinguish  between  them.  Her 
mind  is  so  centered  on  ways  and  means  to  bring  him  to  book, 
that  there  is  room  for  no  other  thought.  He  occupies  her 
entirely.  She  is  forging  a  two-edged  sword. 

Bobbie  was  already  miserable  at  the  thought  of  her  in- 
efficiency. Her  self-conceit  had  sustained  too  stunning  a 
blow.  She  was  humble  in  his  presence,  willing  to  make  con- 
cessions to  keep  him  away  from  superior  attractions.  Then, 
and  then  only,  the  male  scalp-hunter  evinced  a  condescending 
interest  in  her ;  finally  admitted  after  her  tearful  tragic  ques- 
tioning that  there  was  no  hated  and  haughty  rival ;  but  that 


374  God's  Man 

he  cared  for  her  as  much  (he  meant  as  little)  as  he  cared  for 
other  women.  But  he  is  slow  to  love  any  one — he  admits  it 
freely.  He  is  suspicious  by  nature.  A  woman  must  do  more 
than  say  she  loves  him :  she  must  prove  it — thus,  by  his  own 
almost  feminine  intuition,  turning  on  her  the  very  guns  her 
sex  has  used  on  his  from  time  immemorial.  .  .  .  And  by 
this  and  other  mendacities,  too  numerous  to  catalogue,  suc- 
ceeded in  fanning  her  self-love  into  a  fiery  flame,  the  very 
counterpart  of  furious  affection. 

She  thought  only  of  how  she  might  hold  this  wonderful 
creature  whom  so  many  superior  women  desired.  She  saw 
no  reason  why  they  should  not.  Such  a  man  knows  instinct- 
ively how  to  supply  in  himself  those  things  she  most  craves; 
permitting  her  for  example,  to  fondle  him  just  as  she  would 
that  child  she  has  so  long  desired :  immediately  after  becom- 
ing harsh  of  word,  ready  of  blow,  counterfeiting  that  primi- 
tive manliness  that  thrills  such  women  with  an  ages-old  fear. 

Then  again,  being  idle  themselves,  the  Petties  have  nothing 
to  prevent  them  from  being  available  as  constant  companions. 
And,  caring  nothing  for  women,  they  proscribe  no  vice,  no  dis- 
sipation. Men  who  love  may  forbid  many  things  for  fear  of 
the  future;  but  young  untrained  women,  acting  on  impulse, 
see  only  that  they  have  been  denied  a  delectable  or  thrilling 
experience,  and  despise  nothing  quite  so  much  as  the  miser- 
able excuse  that  the  deprivation  "is  for  their  own  good."  .  .  . 

It  is  alwa}'S  an  ungrateful  task  to  attempt  to  explain  the 
unexplained.  To  the  ready-made  moralists  who  tolerantly 
class  women  as  good  or  bad  Miss  Beulah  Roberts  must  have 
been  naturally  vicious  or  she  could  not  have  become  in- 
fatuated with  a  naturally  vicious  man.  Then  Hugo  must 
have  been  naturally  vicious  to  love  a  naturally  vicious  woman ; 
and  Arnold  must  have  been  naturally  vicious  to  have  a  nat- 
urally vicious  friend. 

And  so  the  whole  fabric  of  this  history  goes  to  pieces.  For 
not  one  of  them  was  naturally  vicious,  not  even  the  intoler- 
able Mr.  Schmucke  himself. 


Denounced  375 

II.    DETECTIVE  McKiss  HAS  A  CALLER 

Back  in  that  dark  lighted  world,  then,  while  Arnold  lis- 
tened in  the  radiant  darkness,  Mr.  Roy  Schmucke  ran  to  earth 
Eugene  McKiss,  Detective  Lieutenant  assigned  to  the  "Ten- 
derloin," in  the  Cafe  Rochefort,  one  of  those  new  establish- 
ments, all  gilt  and  glitter,  which  make  favorable  arrangements 
with  semi-celebrities  of  the  Nightless  Lane  that  their  friends 
may  be  drawn  from  better-known  resorts.  Therefore,  Mr. 
McKiss  had  champagne  before  him,  the  check  for  which  would 
be  conveniently  lost.  With  him  sat  his  partner,  Burly  Jones. 

Neither  looked  on  the  advent  of  Mr.  Schmucke  with  any 
favor;  but  as  the  pale-eyed  auburn-haired  parasite  was  useful 
to  them  in  the  matter  of  information — the  Petties  are  allowed 
to  exist  to  serve  as  spies — "stools" — they  bade  him  be  seated 
and,  as  the  wine  cost  them  nothing,  the  waiter  was  directed 
to  bring  a  third  glass  and  then  to  "beat  it  from  the  back  of 
that  chair." 

"You'll  strain  your  ear-drums  some  day,  young  fellow,  and 
then  they'll  burst,  that's  what'll  happen  to  you,"  prophesied 
Mr.  McKiss  cheerfully.  "Go  out  in  the  kitchen  and  drown 
yourself  in  the  sink."  The  waiter,  grinning,  went  off.  "Well 
now,  young  fellow,"  said  McKiss,  addressing  his  visitor. 
"What  do  you  want?  Because  I  ain't  just  stuck  on  being  with 
you  in  public,  Petty,  and  that's  no  airy  persiflage.  What's 
new,  little  one?  Some  rough  guy  give  you  a  belt  in  the 
eye,  and  you  come  to  swear  you  seen  him  trample  on  an  old 
lady?  Or  do  you  want  to  get  your  mother  arrested  for  not 
remitting  regular  ?" 

"That's  a  case  for  the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty 
to  Animals,"  put  in  Mr.  Jones,  the  burly,  a  heavy  shouldered 
gentleman  with  arms  like  a  gorilla,  light  green  eyes,  dogged 
fidelity  to  his  friends.  He  was  much  averse  to  the  use  of  such 
creatures  as  Petty:  what  he  liked  was  to  go,  single-handed, 
into  a  house  full  of  desperadoes,  starting  to  shoot  as  his 
shoulder  broke  down  the  door.  His  partner  shared  his  aver- 


376  God's  Man 

sion  and  was  his  match  in  courage  if  not  in  strength — a  slen- 
der, bright-eyed,  tall  young  man,  this  McKiss,  a  man  whose 
friendly  smile  gave  him  wide  popularity  among  all  classes. 
But  both  men  realized  that  they  must  use  the  weapons  of  their 
profession.  If  they  did  otherwise,  they  would  be  badly  beaten 
on  their  cases. 

"You  needn't  get  so  fresh,"  returned  Petty,  his  little  eyes 
snapping  with  malice ;  "because  if  you  do,  I'll  just  go  over  and 
see  Martin  O'Grady  and  give  him  what  I've  got.  And  it's  no 
chicken-feed,  either.  It's  important  dough,  you  just  believe 
me  when  I  tell  you.  Yes,  sir,  one  great  chance  to  grab  our- 
selves about  a  hundred  grands — grands,  I  said,  grands.  .  .  . 
You  needn't  smile  like  that,  neither,  Billy  Jones.''  .  .  . 

"I  told  you  what  always  happened  to  these  little  hop-fiends 
if  they  kept  on  lying  on  their  side,"  said  the  burly  one,  ad- 
dressing his  partner.  It  was  half  unbelief,  half  system.  Such 
people  as  Petty  could  be  angered  into  unguarded  confidences. 

"Sure,  sure,"  agreed  Mr.  McKiss  pityingly.  "You  better 
can  that  black  smoke,  young  fellow,  or  it'll  have  you  in  the 
funny-house.  I  know  one  guy  saved  up  his  pennies  to  buy  an 
airship  to  go  pick  daisies  in  the  moon.  They've  got  him  down 
at  Kings  Park  now  in  a  room  with  extra  heavy  bars  so  he 
can't  fly  outa  the  window.  He  sees  sunflowers  up  there  now 
as  big  as  a  man's  hat.  .  .  ." 

"Wall,  if  you  ain't  the  grocery-store  comics,"  said  Petty, 
sneering.  "Come  off  with  that  small-time  humor.  It  even 
gets  the  hook  in  burlycue."  .  .  . 

"Never  mind  about  our  humor,  young  fellow,"  returned 
McKiss,  grinning.  "You  go  on  and  give  us  some  good  excuse 
why  you  should  be  sitting  at  the  table  with  a  couple  of  regular 
guys.  And  you  got  to  do  better  than  bring  Grimm's  Fairy 
Tales  up  to  date.  Whadda  you  been  doing? — sleigh-riding? 
Stick  to  the  long  bamboo.  Charley-^that  snow's  awful  bad  for 
the  imagination.  I  see  a  cocaine-drunk  the  other  day  trying 
to  walk  right  through  a  plate-glass  window  and  draw  a  glass  of 
beer  outa  a  keg  in  a  lithograph." 


Denounced  377 

The  exasperated  Petty  interrupted  him  by  rising.  "Well, 
I  guess  Mart  O'Grady  'nil  listen  to  a  chance  to  grab  himself 
from  ten  to  twenty  thousand.  Maybe  he  ain't  as  rich  as  you 
fellows  with  your  fourteen-hundred  a  year."  .  .  . 

"Oh,  ten  thousand — that's  getting  to  listen  like  a  human 
being:  it  was  a  hundred  a  minute  ago.  Sit  down  and  spill 
it,  young  fellow,  and  look  slippery  because  we  got  a  date  for 
a  little  bracelet-party  at  eight-thirty — a  smart  young  fellow 
who  thought  he  could  break  back  into  New  York  just  because 
there  was  a  change  of  Administration.  Come  on,  now !" 

"I  can't  talk  here,"  said  Petty  sulkily.  "You'll  have  to 
come  up  to  my  room  or  get  a  private  one  here.  I'm  not  going 
to  take  any  chances  of  any  bunny-eared  by-stander  getting 
wise  to  my  dope.  It's  too  important.  „  .  ."  McKiss, 
convinced  that  somehow  the  little  red-haired  reptile  had 
learned  something  of  importance,  signaled  the  head  waiter 
who  led  the  way  to  one  of  the  Eochefort's  advertised  "cabinets 
particular"  all  of  which  opened  off  the  balcony  overhead. 
McKiss  asked  for  vichy  and  milk  now  they  were  out  of  the 
public  eye  and  for  Mr.  Jones  grape-juice  and  lemon.  Petty's 
possible  wants  were  disregarded. 

"Well,  satisfied  now,  young  fellow?"  asked  the  younger 
sleuth  while  his  senior  growled.  Petty  opened  the  door  com- 
municating with  the  next  room,  locked  it. 

"He's  been  to  see  some  play,"  commented  McKiss.  "Why 
don't  you  listen  at  the  keyhole  first ;  you've  got  no  technique. 
Then  you  ought  to  draw  your  chair  close,  look  mysteriously 
about  you  and  begin.  'I  was  the  only  child  of  wealthy  par- 
ents, and  accustomed  to  every  luxury,  when — '  " 

"Oh,  hell"  almost  shouted  Petty.  "Are  you  going  to 
listen?  Just  tell  me,  yes  or  no.  .  .  ." 

"I'll  tell  you  one  thing,"  snarled  Jones:  "I'll  give  you  a 
poke  in  the  puss  if  you  pull  any  more  cracks  like  that.  You're 
pretty  lucky  you're  allowed  to  take  up  our  time,  Mr.  Eat. 
Now  sit  down  and  get  to  business.  Go  on !" 

Petty,  subdued,  obeyed.    "I  ain't  sore  only  you're  hammer- 


378  God's  Man 

ing  me  all  the  time  and  me  trying  to  get  you  some  money," 
he  whined.  "It  ain't  right,  fellows.  I  never  did  anything 
to  you:  always  heen  your  friend:  come  to  you  right  away  I 
heard  this — come  to  you  first.  .  .  .  Some  parties  are 
smuggling  in  a  hundred-thousand-worth  of  hop  maybe  right 
now,  maybe  to-morrow — as  soon  as  a  certain  yacht  comes 
in.  ... 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  continued,  encouraged  by  their  exchange  of 
glances.  "One  hundred-thousand,  at  least.  And  I'm  the  only 
one  knows  it  outside  the  people  mixed  up  in  it.  !N"one  of  the 
gang.  Silk-stockinged  guys.  I  got  it  from  my  girl.  That's 
why  I  don't  want  to  mention  any  names.  If  one  of  those  fel- 
lows got  in  wrong,  she'd  be  up  against  it.  His  father's  got 
plenty  of  dough.  He  just  went  into  this  to  help  a  friend. 
.  .  .  But  you  don't  need  to  know  any  names.  I  can  tell 
you  where  they're  going  to  pull  this  off  and  then  all  you've  got 
to  do  is  stick  around  till  they  get  it  all  landed  and  then  step  in 
and  grab  it.  They  won't  dare  put  up  a  holler.  They're  all 
good  families  and  can't  stand  the  notoriety.  And  when  you 
flash  your  shields  and  arrest  Jem,  they'll  be  only  too  glad  to 
make  their  getaways.  You  could  fix  it  so  they  could  beat  it 
after  you  arrested  them.  Have  'em  think  it  was  all  their  own 
smartness,  fooling  you.  Then  all  you'd  have  to  do  would  be  to 
hire  a  couple  of  trucks  and  drive  the  stuff  to  town.  I  know  a 
hundred  places  where  I  can  peddle  it.  And  so  do  you !  .  .  ." 

Their  stony  silence  began  to  worry  him ;  his  eyes  wavered, 
his  hands  trembled.  "You  see  we  get  the  stuff  and  no  holler. 
They  won't  dare  squeal  on  us.  Don't  smuggling  it  mean  a 
five-year  stretch  in  a  Federal  prison  ?  I've  looked  everything 
up  over  there." 

Above  the  sylvan  tracery  of  Bryant  Park,  the  Corinthian 
columns  of  the  new  library  supported  a  roof  that  might  have 
sheltered  a  temple  to  Aphrodite.  He  waved  toward  it.  "And 
believe  me,"  he  bragged  as  he  reviewed  the  thoroughness  of 
his  researches  and  his  iniquitous  ingenuity,  "we  can't  lose 


Denounced  379 

You  oughta  be  mighty  grateful  to  me  for  cutting  you  in  •with 
it  considering  the  rotten  way  you  treat  me  all  the  time." 

Mr.  McKiss  reached  for  his  vichy  and  milk,  regarding  it 
thoughtfully.  Mr.  Jones,  who,  in  matters  requiring  more  wit 
than  muscle,  yielded  the  initiative,  reached  for  his  grape- juice 
and  tried  to  regard  it  thoughtfully,  failing  of  anything  but  a 
scowl.  Potty's  confidence  deserted  him,  nervousness  took  its 
place. 

"Say,  I  didn't  make  a  mistake  and  invite  you  to  a  funeral, 
did  I  ?"  he  had  meant  to  ask,  satirically,  evidence  that  he  was 
in  no  way  impressed.  But  before  he  had  half  the  words  out, 
strong  fingers  fastened  on  his  reedy  wrist  and  jerked  his  face 
directly  under  the  light  of  a  shaded  candle. 

"No  stalling,  young  fellow,"  McKiss  said,  suddenly  stern 
and  sinister.  "You  just  tell  us  how  you  found  out  about  this. 
Smugglers  don't  go  spilling  their  insides  out  to  girls.  Come 
through  with  the  whole  story  or  I'll  give  an  extra  twist  to 
that  pretty  little  paw.  You  don't  think  Billy  and  I  are  going 

off  on  any  wild-goose  chase,  do  you  ?    How  did  you  get  wise  ? 
?> 

Petty  almost  wept.  "A  fine  way  to  treat  a  friend  that  comes 
to  you  with  a  fortune ;  a  fine  way.  ...  I  won't  tell  you 
any  names,  not  a  name.  Think  I'm  going  to  hand  you  a 
bunch  of  easy  money  and  a  guy  to  blackmail  on  top  of  it? 
Think  I'm  going  to  see  her  crabbed  ?  .  .  ."  He  squirmed 
and  twisted.  "Let  go,  'Gene.  Whadda  you  wanta  act  this 
way  for  ?" 

"Tell  us  how  you  found  out,"  answered  McKiss.  "Come 
on.  Then  we'll  know  how  much  to  believe  and  whether  you've 
got  some  spitework  up  your  sleeve.  You  don't  expect  us  to 
trust  you,  do  you  ?  Come  on :  tell  the  truth  or  we'll  take  you 
down  and  lock  you  up  as  a  suspicious  character  and  get  you 
thirty  days  on  the  Island.  We'll  vag  you,  so  help  me !"  He 
eyed  him  steadily,  then  flung  him  back  with  such  violence 
that  his  head  struck  the  back  of  the  chair.  "If  you  will  come 


380  God's  Man 

kidding  public  officials  and  wasting  the  city's  time,  we'll  make 
you  pay  for  it."  .  .  . 

"Oh,  all  right"  he  grumbled.  "One  of  these  fellow's  got  a 
girl.  And — "  he  grinned,  but  immediately  repented  it :  he  had 
had  previous  experience  with  what  he  called  their  "narrow- 
mindedness" — they  were  "just  jealous"  that  was  all,  they  and 
their  make-believe  morals. 

"Well,"  he  broke  off  sulkily,  altering  the  original  intention 
of  his  narrative,  "I  guess  she  likes  me  pretty  well.  .  .  . 
Now,  he's  been  up  against  it  a  little,  lately,  in  bad  with  the 
old  man;  so  when  I  asked  her  to  loan  me  a  coupla  centuries 
th'  other  day,  she  stalled.  'You've  got  your  junk/  I  said  to 
her.  That  sort  of  stuff  makes  me  sore  with  a  dame.  'Well/ 
I  said,  'why  can't  you  soak  some  of  it?'  She  said  she  could 
and  would.  But  she  kept  putting  me  off,  making  first  one 
excuse,  then  another.  When  I  noticed  she  wasn't  wearing 
much  of  the  junk,  I  got  suspicious.  But  when  I  asked  her 
'Why5  she  always  said  only  chorus-girls  wore  expensive  junk  in 
the  day-time."  ... 

He  paused,  for  any  attempt  to  gloss  over  his  discreditable 
methods  would  have  been  a  strain  on  one  possessed  of  a 
genuine  felicity  of  phrase.  But  these  jealous  humbugs  would 
pretend  to  be  disgusted  and  possibly  kick  him  if  he  told  the 
thing  exactly  as  it  had  happened.  "Well,  anyway,"  he  went 
on,  with  labored  gaiety.  ''I'd  never  been  at  her  apartment: 
the  live  one  was  liable  to  bust  in  any  time.  But  this  afternoon, 
when  she  phoned  me  she  told  me  he'd  gone  to  the  country  for 
a  few  days.  Now,  I  says  to  myself,  now's  the  time  to  find  out 
about  that  junk.  So  I  said  I'd  come  over  instead  of  her  com- 
ing out.  .  .  .  When  I  get  there  I  ask  if  she's  done  what 
I  want.  No,  she  hasn't,  and  another  bum  excuse.  'And  I 
know  why,  too/  I  said  and  made  her  think  I'm  dead  sore. 
'You  don't  care  for  me  any  more.  Well,  I'm  not  going  to 
waste  my  time  with  a  girl  that  don't  care  for  me.  .  .  /  " 

Again  he  suppressed  a  grin  evoked  by  his  superlative  cun- 
ning. "Of  course  I  knew  she  was  wild  about  me  and  wouldn't 


Denounced  381 

let  me  go — not  an  inch.  But  I  stalled.  I  was  trying  to  get  out 
and  she  hung  on  and  hollered.  ...  I  tried  to  push  her 
off — of  course  I  could  have  done  it  if  I'd  really  wanted  to — ." 

"You  can  cut  out  the  rest  of  it/'  interrupted  McKiss,  with 
an  ugly  look  which  Petty  knew  from  experience  was  the 
fore-runner  of  a  cruel  kick.  Mr.  Jones's  eyes  held  something 
of  the  same.  Petty  threw  away  his  Virginia  cigarette. 

"Well,  you  made  me  tell  you,  didn't  you?"  he  demanded 
of  McKiss. 

"I  suppose,  when  she  persuaded  you  to  stay,  you  said  you 
would  if  she  proved  she  still  loved  you  by  handing  over  the 
jewelry  for  you  to  hock,"  said  McKiss  with  a  savage  sneer. 
"And  once  you  got  your  hands  on  it,  it  would  have  been  good- 
by,  baby,  see  you  later  maybe.  Maybe  not.  "Well,  she  didn't 
have  it  to  give  you,  I  suppose  ?"  Petty  sullenly  assented.  "Well, 
why?"  asked  McKiss. 

"He  took  it  and  hocked  it  himself  about  four  months  ago — 
and  her  stringing  me  all  the  time.  Oh,  she  raised  hell  with 
him  all  right.  And  she  raised  ten  times  more  hell  when  she 
couldn't  get  me  that  loan.  He  told  her  he'd  invested  the 
money  so  he'd  get  from  ten  to  twenty  times  as  much  for  it. 
She  thought  he  meant  speculated  and  started  to  pack  her 
things,  she  was  so  sore.  So  he  lost  his  head  and  told  her, 
that's  all.  .  .  .  First,  a  friend  of  his  got  into  trouble, 
forged  a  note  or  something  from  the  way  she  told  it,  and 
had  to  make  good.  Well,  he  didn't  have  any  money  for  his 
friend,  being  in  bad  with  his  old  man,  so  he  hocked  his  own 
jewelry  and  put  the  money  in  this  smuggling  scheme.  Then 
I  guess  he  thought  it  'ud  be  pretty  nice  to  get  some  soft 
money  for  himself.  So  one  night  while  she's  asleep,  he  takes 
her  key  from  around  her  neck  and  swipes  the  junk.  .  .  . 
And  now  are  you  satisfied?" 

McKiss  looked  at  Jones :  neither  betrayed  any  enthusiasm, 
but  the  pilot-fish  knew  that  his  whales  were  hooked.  "He's 
been  worrying  himself  sick.  His  friend's  been  threatening  to 
shoot  himself  every  day  he  don't  hear  the  boat's  back  from 


382  God's  Man 

Mexico  with  the  stuff.  .  .  .  But  to-day  they  got  a  message 
from  the  other  fellow  in  with  it — he  lives  down  near  the 
place  on  Long  Island  where  the  stuff's  to  he  landed.  Didn't 
give  any  particulars  but  I  guess  the  ship's  in  sight  or  some- 
thing and  the  stuff's  going  to  be  landed  to-night.  .  .  . 
They've  hired  a  house  right  out  on  the  Sound,  and  I've  got 
the  phone  number.  The  maid  wrote  it  down  on  the  pad  that 
hangs  alongside  Bobbie's" — he  checked  himself — "alongside 
her  phone.  All  you've  got  to  do  is  to  call  up  the  Long 
Island  telephone  headquarters  and  they'll  tell  you  where  the 
house  that  has  that  phone  is — " 

"Why  don't  you  start  a  school  for  detectives?"  suggested 
McKiss.  "Lot's  of  fellows  who've  only  been  on  the  force 
fifteen  years  or  so  7ud  be  glad  to  get  your  valuable  instruction. 
On  behalf  of  Mr.  Jones  and  myself,  I  beg  to  state  we  are 
most  grateful  for  your  kind  assistance.  Wouldn't  know  what 
to  do  without  him,  would  we,  Billy  ?" 

But  Petty,  watching  anxiously,  knew  he  had  them.  "There's 
a  train  at  nine  o'clock ;  I  looked  that  up,  too." 

"Train  to  where?"  demanded  Jones  roughly. 

Petty,  his  assurance  recovered,  put  a  finger  to  his  nose. 
"Fifty-fifty?"  he  asked. 

"Whadda  you  mean,  fifty-fifty,  young  fellow?"  asked  Mc- 
Kiss savagely. 

"Half  for  me,  half  for  you,"  Petty  had  the  temerity  to  reply. 
He  expected  no  such  division  but  he  feared,  did  he  begin  by 
suggesting  thirds,  that  he  would  end  with  a  quarter.  "Well, 
split  it  three  ways  then,"  he  said  as  they  looked  threateningly 
at  him.  "But  don't  waste  any  more  time.  Suppose  that  ship 
came  in  to-night  and  they  got  the  stuff  out  and  started  it  up 
to  town  as  soon  as  they  landed  it.  He  took  his  big  touring  car 
with  him,  this  fellow  did.  And  if  you  miss  the  nine  train 
that's  the  last  that  goes  any  farther  than  Huntington  to-night, 
and  that's  less'n  half-way.  You'd  have  to  trolley  to  ISTorth- 
port,  and  spend  a  sawbuck  on  an  automobile  to  take  you  the 
rest  of  the  way.  .  .  .  And  it 'ud  be  daylight  maybe  before 


Denounced  383 

you  made  it — it's  over  a  two-hours'  trip  by  train  just  to  the 
station.  Lord  knows  how  far  the  house  is  from  there.  .  .  . 
Well,  is  it  all  right?  Do  I  get  my  third?"  He  knew  they 
would  keep  their  word  once  it  was  passed;  which  was  why 
they  had  won  the  confidence  of  the  underworld  and  received 
so  much  outside  assistance. 

"If  this  is  some  kind  of  a  frame-up  for  us,  I'll  get  you, 
Mr.  Rat,  and  mark  you  up  so  you'll  never  grab  another  dame," 
commented  the  burly  one,  fixing  Petty  with  a  suspicious  eye. 
There  was  a  new  Police  Commissioner  at  Headquarters  and 
their  detail  was  a  plum  that  nine-tenths  of  their  brother 
plain  clothes  men  coveted.  Petty  shrank  before  Jones'  men- 
acing eye,  viewing  the  long  gorilla-like  arms  and  heavy 
clenched  hands. 

''Why,  Billy"  he  protested.  "Whadda  I  do  that  for?  You 
know  I'm  your  friend."  Jones  growled  something  indis- 
tinguishable and  resumed  his  staring  at  the  sea  of  light  below. 

"Well— all  right/'  said  McKiss  finally.  "Where  is  it— 
Shoreham — or  Port  Jefferson — or  Havre  de  Grace? — they're 
the  only  three  places  on  the  North  Shore  where  anybody  would 
try  to  smuggle  anything — and  they're  all  around  two  hours 
from  Jamaica." 

"Havre  de  Grace,"  answered  Petty,  "and  the  phone  num- 
ber is  Havre  de  Grace  81.  ...  I  suppose  you  could  find 
out  who's  rented  it  easy  enough  by  asking  around  the  village. 
But  it  wouldn't  do  you  any  good  and  it  might  make  'em  sus- 
picious, hearing  somebody  was  asking.  .  .  ." 

McKiss  replaced  his  watch,  an  ornate  affair,  a  present  from 
a  grateful  thief  who  had  erased  its  serial  numbers.  "What 
would  we  want  to  know  for  ?"  he  asked  in  a  tired  sort  of  way. 
"If  they  knew  we  knew  we'd  have  to  get  them  even  if  they 
escaped.  As  for  hiring  trucks  and  getting  the  stuff  taken  to 
town,  that's  all  in  your  eye.  If  I  find  out  you're  telling  the 
truth,  I'll  wire  Billy  to  come  down  in  a  big  car  same  as  this 
other  fellow.  And  I'll  put  off  making  the  pinch  till  he  comes. 
Hey,  Billy  ?"  The  burly  one  nodded.  "Just  tell  'em  down  to 


384  God's  Man 

Headquarters  I  got  a  tip  that  B§nny  Broun's  hiding  over  in 
Jersey  and  so  I  beat  it  over  there."  The  burly  one  nodded 
again.  "You  be  here  in  this  private  room  to-morrow  night 
at  dinner-time,  young  fellow,  and  Billy'll  have  some  news  for 
you.  You  better  stick  in  the  hotel  to-morrow  morning  till  I 
phone  you,  Bill.  Well,  so-long."  .  .  . 

Pulling  his  soft  hat  half-way  down  to  his  eyes,  Mr.  McKiss 
rolled  a  cigarette  from  the  loose  "makings"  in  his  pocket,  lit 
it  and  went  his  way,  a  slim,  quiet,  unobtrusive,  rather  at- 
tractive-looking citizen.  At  the  corner  drug-store  he  bought 
a  toothbrush,  a  pocket-comb,  a  tiny  nailbrush  and  an  orange- 
stick,  for,  whatever  the  obliquity  of  his  ethics,  his  physical 
code  was  scrupulously  correct.  In  the  Arcade  under  the  great 
arch  of  the  gate  to  Long  Island,  he  invested  an  American 
shilling  in  two  new  collars.  Then,  equipped  for  any  adven- 
ture, for  he  had  filled  his  lower  left  coat-pocket  with  tobacco 
only  that  afternoon — he  descended  deep  into  the  dark  places 
of  the  earth. 

Here,  in  caverns  hewn  out  of  the  solid  rock,  red  and  green 
lamps  glowed  somberly  in  dark  subterranean  passages.  A  hun- 
dred feet  below  the  city's  cellars,  the  Jamaica  express  chugged 
and  chirred  impatiently.  Soon  after  he  entered  it,  it  plunged 
into  the  darkness,  singing  a  song  of  steel  and  sparks  to  the 
depths  of  the  conquered  river  overhead.  It  came  upward 
into  a  land  of  lights,  myriad  lights,  lights  of  stations  and  sig- 
nals, of  towers  and  town-clocks,  of  trains  and  motors  and 
carriages,  all  gleaming  and  glimmering,  winking  and  wagging, 
halting  and  hurrying — the  lights  of  Long  Island. 

Behind,  in  the  last  car  was  Mr.  Schmucke.  He  knew  Mc- 
Kiss, knew  he  could  not  endure  a  half-hour  without  cigar- 
ettes, therefore  had  known  he  was  safe  from  observation  so 
long  as  he  avoided  the  smoking-car.  In  the  dusky  half-light 
of  the  Jamaica  station,  he  stood  behind  an  iron  girder  until 
the  plain  clothes  man  had  taken  his  seat  in  a  "local"  that  would 
bear  them  to  Havre  de  Grace;  then  hurried  on  bj  the  back 
platform  of  the  rear  car.  .  .  . 


Denounced  385 

It  was  not  every  day  a  man  got  a  chance  to  make  his 
fortune.  He  was  going  to  see  that  "damn  dick"  didn't  try 
to  "put  anything  over  on  him."  If  he  did,  he  could  look 
out  for  himself.  He  would  make  some  kind  of  a  deal  with 
young  Waldemar.  He'd  get  his.  ).  .  . 

He  was  about  to  justify  his  existence.  All  that  life  of  evil 
had  been  permitted  him  only  that  he  might  now  serve  to 
bring  swiftly  to  a  head  the  dark  brew  that  had  long  been 
upon  the  unseen  fire. 


END  OF  BOOK  VI 


BOOK  VII 


CHAPTER   ONE 

THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  SEVENTEENTH 
I.   "ONWARD,  CHRISTIAN  SOLDIERS" 

HE  night  of  the  sixteenth  was  a 
fine  one,  long  remembered  for  its 
full  moon.  It  was  so  light  that 
one  could  see  for  miles  around  and 
count  each  ship  at  sea.  It  was  so 
fine  it  apparently  tired  out  the  ele- 
ments; for  on  the  seventeenth, 
there  was  no  moon;  and  although 
a  heavy  September  gale  scudded 
the  clouds  along,  the  Island,  and 
especially  our  part, — the  North 
Shore  from  Huntington  to  the 
ocean, — was  shrouded  in  impene- 
trable mystery. 

The  seventeenth  had  been  a  dreary  day  for  all  concerned 
with  the  Cormorant's  coming ;  every  one  having  watched  until 
dawn :  McKiss  in  the  beach  underbrush ;  Petty,  racing-glasses 
in  shaking  hands,  shivering  on  Harbor  Hill ;  Arnold,  himself, 
hitherto  quite  calm,  too  excited  to  sleep  and  at  his  bedroom 
window  most  of  the  early  morning. 

Archie  who,  alone,  had  slept  as  one  pink  with  spiritual  per- 
fection, was  a  perfect  pest  with  calculations  of  latitude  and 
longitude,  average  speeds,  possible  meteorological  disturb- 
ances, continual  demands  for  listeners  and  verification.  He 
babbled  of  bills;  bills,  or  ruin,  to  be  met.  When  he  spoke 


390  God's  Man 

of  what  that  young  gentleman  he  knew  as  Mr.  Nolan  called 
"doing  the  Dutch," — Archie's  favorite  topic  during  the  past 
few  months, — Pink  could  contain  himself  no  longer. 

"We  can  help  you;  please  let  us,"  he  urged  icily.  "Every 
cloudy  Monday,  we  help  send  a  few  Dutch  hats  to  float  in 
the  East  River ; — hey,  sucker  ?"  Then :  "Go  on  up,  Beau.  I 
got  some  poison  in  my  grip,  nicest  you  ever  ate;  couple  of 
spoonfuls  and,  oh,  joy ! !  Go  on, — sap !  Bump  this  guy  off 
quick!" 

Darkness  began  to  close  in.  From  the  fringed  and  scanty 
strip  of  breakwater, — the  edge  of  the  world  now, — faint 
streamers  of  white  rose  out  of  a  gray  bleak  universe.  Like 
smoky  snakes  they  crept  along  the  beach,  twined  the  trees  and 
eddied  about  Havre  de  Grace  light. 

The  watchers  in  the  chalet  felt  the  cold  breath  of  the  sea- 
fog;  hair  and  eyebrows  were  sticky  with  salty  moisture. 

"Old  Mother  Cary  brewing  for  her  chickens  again." 

Arnold  was  trying  hard  to  be  cheerful.  Soon  he  saw  the 
great  eye  of  the  Connecticut  Cyclops  wink  dimly ; — those  pow- 
erful reflectors !  He  had  a  sickly  foreboding  that,  if  this  kept 
up,  the  Cormorant  might  come  and  go,  signal  and  blaze,  for 
all  any  one  on  the  Cliffs  could  see.  To  confirm  him,  the  sad 
slow  voice  of  the  great  Green  Sands  fog-horn  began  to  warn, 
Havre  de  Grace  bell-buoy  to  chill. 

"Looks  like  a  night  out  for  some  of  us,"  Arnold  said,  com- 
ing inside.  "So  whoever's  going,  Pink? — Better  get  some 
sleep,  then !  I've  got  to,  that  beastly  motor !  Look  after  the 
dinner,  Beau; — you'll  stay.  I'm  off;  forty  winks." 

"Let's  eat  at  nine:  that'll  hold  us  until  morning,"  sug- 
gested Hugo. 

Arnold  assented;  then,  from  the  kitchen:  "Cheese;  crack- 
ers ;  water  to  boil  for  tea ;  'case  anybody's  hungry  now.  Potted 
stuff  in  the  pantry,  too.  .  .  .  It'll  be  eleven  before 
Danny'll  dare  signal.  Say  we  start  at  ten.  What  say?" 

"Boat-Stuff,  hey?"  Pink  reflected.  "Me  for  that  poison 
myself"  Then  sang: 


The  Night  of  the  Seventeenth     391 

"If  you've  got  to  be  out  in  the  cold  and  wet, 

Get  a  dollar  shell  of  hop, 

And  you'll  think  you're  with  your  pet." 

"Chorus!"  he  shouted;  Beau  carolled,  too. 

"Oh,  the  hop,  the  hop, — jolly  good  guys  and  fancy  ladies, 
Bound  for  Hades,  bound  for  Cadiz, — any  old  place  that's 
nice  and  hot"' — 


They  disappeared  singing,  returning  with  amber  mouthpiece, 
gaudily  colored  Turkish  water-pipe  hose,  bowl,  cylindrical 
brass  cup.  The  latter  revealed  a  filigreed  lamp;  the  glass 
shade  to  fit  this  was  unwrapped  from  tissue-paper.  There 
was  also  a  cooking-needle,  a  bowl-scraper, —  (yen-shi-gow), 
etc. 

"Traveling  layout,"  Pink  explained ;  Arnold  recognized  the 
little  white  "toey." 

"Forgot  .  .  .  and  hadda  stop  at  Blackie  Burns' — looks 
like  he  handed  us  a  lime — "  Pink  was  sniffing. 

Arnold  recognized  the  name,  too :  as  agent  of  the  syndicate, 
he  had  sold  Burns  twenty-five  thousand  fen, — crude. 

"Ought  to  be  good,"  said  he  shortly.  "It's  some  of  your 
governor's,' — governors-es."  He  told  Hugo  and  Archie  of  the 
sale.  "So  we're  in  distinguished  company  as  wholesale  opium 
dealers — a  Congressman  and  a  Justice  of  the  Peace." 

Only  Pink  observed  his  bitter  sarcasm.  Hugo  looked  on 
curiously,  Archie  with  eager  interest.  Even  Arnold's  young 
crow  hopped  down  from  his  perch  and  poked  his  bill  through 
the  bars  of  his  cage.  Beau  placed  the  various  articles  on  a 
small  silver  tray  from  the  buffet,  put  the  tray  upon  a  piano 
stool, — and  placed  the  stool  close  to  a  willow  lounge  chair. 
This,  when  extended,  would  permit  one  to  lie  almost  at 
length.  Pink  drew  up  another  chair  so  that  the  stool  was  be- 
tween them.  Then  the  two  laid  themselves  down,  Beau  cook- 


392  God's  Man 

ing;  the  amber  mouthpiece  at  the  end  of  the  long  hose  passing 
back  and  fourth  between  them. 

But  when  Arnold  descended  from  his  room,  some  hours 
later,  he  found  the  situation  changed.  The  chairs  had  been 
abandoned,  traveling  rugs  from  the  car  were  piled  on  the  floor. 
Archie's  head  was  on  Hugo's  hip,  as  all  four  reclined  about 
the  tiny  lamp,  his  eyes  as  wild  and  excited  as  Hugo's  were 
dull  and  heavy.  Arnold,  standing  on  the  stairs,  saw  Archie 
seize,  eagerly,  a  proffered  "pill"  which  Hugo  had  sleepily  re- 
fused. The  crow  slept  heavily  in  his  cage,  overpowered  by  the 
fumes. 

Pink  was  the  first  to  discover  Arnold's  reappearance;  and 
leaping  up,  blushed  guiltily.  "The  dinner's  all  right,"  he 
said,  with  an  attempt  to  carry  off  the  situation.  "I've  got 
everything  fixed  up  fine, — the  chickens  only  need  another  ten 
minutes  to  be  brown  enough  to  pass  for  Cuban  patriots.  And, 
believe  me,  I  mixed  a  salad  dressing  that  would  make  a  milk- 
weed taste  like  head  lettuce.  You  never  tasted  any  caw- 
fee,  did  you  ?  Well,  that's  a  hop-fighter's  dinner  you  know, — 
piece  of  pie  and  a  cup  of  cawfee.  And  my  Java  has  made  me 
the  particular  kid  in  such  circles.  .  .  .  That's  what  I've 
been  doing  while  the  other  members  of  this  club  have  been 
lying  on  their  sides — " 

Still  ill  at  ease  under  Arnold's  reproachful  gaze,  Pink  sat 
down  at  the  piano.  Like  many  with  uncultivated  musical 
gifts, — especially  in  his  world, — he  had,  besides  his  showy 
talent  for  syncopated  melodies,  the  ability  to  strike  chords; 
which,  although  known  by  a  tonsorial  nickname,  had  never- 
theless, a  genuine  appeal  to  the  emotions. 

Pink  was  a  past-master  at  these  lachrymose  melodies.  Sen- 
timental like  most  of  his  class  (although  he  concealed  it  deep 
down  where  he  kept  his  respect  for  age  and  "square  girls," 
love  for  home  and  mother,  and  various  other  unworldly  af- 
fections) he  now  thought  of  the  Little  One,  whom  he  had 
been  unable  to  persuade  to  "double-up,"  although  convinced 


The  Night  of  the  Seventeenth     393 

she  was  wildly,  though  secretly,  devoted  to  him.  At  Mother's 
on  the  preceding  afternoon,  hadn't  she  proved  it  by  breaking 
down  before  he  left,  clinging  to  him  and  begging  him  to  be 
careful,  to  come  back  safe  to  her. 

This  scene  recreated  itself  as  he  played  and  sang;  and, 
though  the  words  offered  little  scope  for  sentiment,  he  man- 
aged somehow  to  imbue  both  voice  and  chords  with  a  wist- 
fulness  that  sent  chills  to  Hugo's  spine,  the  usual  warning  of 
moisture  to  his  eyes ;  while  Archie  stared  fixedly  into  space. 

"Come  lie  on  your  side  with  me,  old  pal, 

Come  lie  'round  and  join  in  the  fun; 

With  the  aid  of  'the  gong/ 

We  will  quit  the  mad  throng 

For  the  Land  of  the  Pure  Li-un. 

This  magical  bamboo  stem,  old  pal, 

From  worry  will  set  you  free. 

So,  pal,  don't  be  sad, 

I'll  make  your  heart  glad, 

If  you'll  lie  on  your  side  with  me." 

"He  wrote  it  himself,"  Beau  said,  as  proudly  as  if  it  were 
the  Traumerei.  But,  though  it  is  easy  to  jeer  at  such  primi- 
tive appeals,  the  music  affected  Arnold,  music-scholar  and 
opera-lover,  as  much  as  his  less  enlightened  companions.  And 
.when  Pink,  forgetting  why  he  had  begun  to  play,  wandered 
off  into  other  airs  where  the  words  gave  him  a  better  senti- 
mental opportunity,  Arnold's  reproaches  remained  unuttered 
and  he  sank  down  into  one  of  the  wicker  chairs,  head  on 
hand. 

"I  want  to  go  back  to  the  orchard, 

The  orchard  that  used  to  be  mine : 

I  want  to  stand  deep  in  the  woodland, 

The  woodland  the  color  of  wine. 

I  want  to  go  back  to  the  meadow, 


394  God's  Man 

I  want  to  go  back  to  the  barn; 

To  the  rocks  and  the  rills, 

And  the  whip-whip-poor-wills, 

I  want  to  go  back  to  the  farm"     .     .     . 

"For  God's  sake  stop  it,"  cried  Archie,  the  tears  streaming. 
Pink  came  to  his  feet  with  a  start.  Hugo  was  blinking,  too. 
Arnold  remembered  a  scene  in  a  cafe :  a  half-drunken  woman 
and  The  Rosary.  He  had  sneered  then;  the  situation  was 
much  the  same,  yet  he  did  not  sneer  now.  Not  even  when 
Archie  demanded  more  of  the  opium  as  mental  anodyne  and 
trembled  visibly  while  Beau  prepared  it.  Just  so  had  the 
woman  trembled  while  the  waiter  went  for  more  whisky. 

Nor  did  Arnold  interfere,  as  he  had  first  intended.  In  the 
rush  of  reverie  that  came  with  Pink's  playing,  he  realized 
why  at  such  a  time,  a  soul  should  fiercely  desire  that  which 
would  blur  and  blot  the  memory  of  unkept  promises  to  the 
God  within  us  all,  of  broken  faith  and  bankrupt  hopes,  of  hell 
on  earth  and  ill-will  toward  men. 

The  room  was  silent  save  for  the  bubble-bubble  of  the  pipe, 
the  roar  of  the  wind,  the  surge  of  the  surf.  Arnold  looked 
at  his  watch :  the  awaited  hour  approached.  If  the  Cormorant 
was  to  arrive  that  night,  she  was  nearly  due.  .  .  . 

The  young  crow,  awakened  by  Archie's  passionate  protest, 
surveyed  the  scene  with  one  sleepy  eye.  Ever  since  the  arrival 
of  the  first  two  strangers,  it  had  been  in  a  fit  of  jealous  sulks, 
causing  a  temporary  relapse  into  barbarism.  Its  resentful 
caw  had  been  loud  but  inarticulate,  its  back  pointedly  turned 
when  speech  was  requested,  if  pressed  its  head  was  tucked 
under  its  wing.  But  now,  only  half-awake, — the  music  hav- 
ing intruded  on  its  dreams, — the  crow  was  stirred  to  unex- 
pected emulation:  Onward,  Christian  Soldiers  it  cawed. 
Pink's  elbow  slipped  to  the  key-board  and  a  clangor  of  dis- 
sonances shocked  the  ragged  nerves  of  all.  The  pipe  fell  from 
Beau's  hands  shattering  the  lamp-globe:  the  light  went  out. 
Archie  started  up  with  a  shriek. 


The  Night  of  the  Seventeenth     395 

The  crow,  gratified  by  this  belated  tribute  to  personality, 
fell  into  the  usual  error  of  the  artist  and  repeated  the  per- 
formance. Onward,  Christian  Soldiers,  it  cawed  again.  The 
silence,  tremulous  with  shock,  had  held  for  a  quivering  sec- 
ond. Then  a  galvanized  jack-in-box  that  was  Archie,  sprang 
at  the  cage,  tore  at  its  door,  and  reached  for  its  occupant, 
mechanical  fingers  fastened  on  its  gullet.  But,  now,  another 
also  sprang  and  Arnold's  fist  caught  Archie's  chin  and  tum- 
bled him  over  backward.  He  fell,  striking  his  head  against  a 
table  corner.  In  the  consequent  confusion  and  the  efforts  to 
revive  him, — one  running  for  water,  and  another  opening  the 
window  for  air, — the  frightened  bird  flew  off  to  the  freedom 
of  the  fog. 

Too  late  the  panting  and  pursuing  owner  saw  the  loss  of 
his  beloved  pet.  The  sole  companion  of  his  loneliness  fled,  all 
penitence  fled  with  it.  Looking  down  at  his  fallen  friend, 
Arnold  cursed  him,  cursed  Pink,  cursed  Beau,  cursed  Hugo. 
They  stared  at  him  in  frightened  surprise:  this  raging  hard- 
eyed  fighting-man  was  not  the  Arnold  they  knew.  Nor  did  he 
know  himself;  only  that  he  most  desired  to  feel  his  clenched 
fist  against  human  flesh,  and  that  he  hoped  one  of  them  would 
answer  him  angrily  and  yield  a  second  opportunity. 

But  none  did :  only,  "You've  hurt  him,  Arnold,"  said  Hugo. 

"I  wish  I'd  hurt  him  a  damn'  sight  worse,"  Arnold  returned 
viciously.  "He  got  me  into  this  filthy  business;  yes,  he  and 
you,  and  your  damn'  father.  Yesterday,  I  was  beginning  to 
feel  decent  again.  Now  I'm  just  what  I  was  before  I  left  your 
rotten  city,— a  crook,  a  beast,  a  brute.  And  it's  beginning  to 
show.  Are  you  surprised  ?" 

He  nodded  toward  Pink  and  to  Hugo  while  he  pulled  on 
his  hip-boots.  "Let  Mr.  Hop-Cook  slay  and  look  after  him, 
since  he  was  the  one  who  gave  him  the  stuff  that  did  it.  No. 
I'm  wrong.  Your  father's  the  one,  Hugo,  but  we  haven't  time 
to  get  him.  And  that's  the  kind  of  business  we're  going  into 
to-night.  To  bring  in  more  stuff  that  turns  men  into  that  kind 
of  hysterical  loons." 


396  God's  Man 

"Ah,  dry  up,"  growled  Pink.  "It's  not  the  stuff:  it's  the 
man.  It  never  hurt  me.  Weak-minded  guys  like  that  'uve  got 
no  right  to  smoke  or  drink  or  anything." 

"  '"Weak-minded  guys,  eh  ?' "  asked  Arnold.  He  got  up  and, 
as  he  slipped  his  belt  through  the  loops  of  his  thigh-high 
boots,  he  sneered.  "  'Weak-minded  guys !'  And  what  is  three- 
quarters  of  the  world, — strong  'guys'?  'It  never  hurt  you,' 
eh?  How  many  are  like  you?  How  many  can  take  a  few 
drinks  of  whisky  every  day  without  it  hurting  them?  Not 
enough  to  make  up  for  the  alcoholic  wards  in  every  hospital, 
the  lonely  wives  waiting  until  daybreak,  the  hungry  children, 
the  broken  homes!  And  for  one  Frank  Nolan,  there's  two 
opium-wrecks  living  in  Chinatown,  three  who'd  sell  their 
wife's  wedding-rings  for  a  pound  of  yen-ski,  and  four  uniden- 
tified morphine-fiends  in  the  morgue." 

He  was  very  pale,  his  lips  dry,  his  eyes  wild.  Pink  watched 
him  abashed  and  disquieted,  Hugo  alarmed  and  remorseful. 
"Lefs  not  kid  ourselves  any  longer,  fellows,"  he  resumed  bit- 
terly. "Gentlemen  like  Mr.  John  Waldemar  go  up  every  rung 
of  the  ladder  with  their  foot  on  somebody's  life.  And  we're 
going  out  now  to  put  ourselves  in  the  same  class.  If  you 
didn't  know  it  before,  it's  only  because  you  never  troubled 
yourselves  to  think.  I've  troubled  not  to  think.  I've  said  all 
the  things  John  "Waldemar  says,  all  the  things  you  say,  Pink. 
But  we  had  our  warning  just  now.  We  saw  what  it  does  to 
weaklings.  Archie  Hartogensis  wouldn't  harm  a  fly.  We  saw 
him  first  crying  like  a  girl,  then  yelling  like  a  madman  and 
trying  to  wring  a  helpless  bird's  neck.  We've  had  our  warning, 
so  don't  blame  the  Almighty  if  we  are  lost  in  that  fog  and  are 
never  found.  Warning !  Do  you  people  believe  in  God  ?" 

There  was  an  embarrassed  silence.  "I  don't  know  whether  I 
do  myself,  any  more,"  said  Arnold.  "But  if  I  do,  I've  got  to 
believe  that  only  something  supernormal  arranged  that  terrible 
irony — 'Onward,  Christian  Soldiers!'" 

He  shuddered  and  looked  fearfully  at  the  open  window. 
The  sea-fog  was  rolling  in,  sepulchral  swirls  and  whorls,  ghosts 


The  Night  of  the  Seventeenth     397 

in  gray  winding  sheets,  with  cold  and  clammy  fingers  to  faces, 
each  vanishing  to  take  up  watch  within  the  room,  invisible 
doomsmen, — or  so  the  inchoate  imagery  of  the  moment  might 
be  inadequately  translated.  The  others  sat,  stony  still,  staring 
at  the  window,  all  three  fiend-ridden,  unconscious  mystics: 
Beau  sprang  up. 

"You  don't  catch  me  sticking  around  here,  alone,"  he  said 
fiercely.  But  Pink,  grateful  for  a  foe  he  could  combat,  pushed 
him  back  with  the  flat  of  his  hand. 

"Baby,"  he  jeered,  then  tossed  him  his  automatic  pistol: 
"Keep  off  the  bogies  with  that.  Wake  up  the  other  baby  and 
rehearse  your  act  together."  He,  too,  had  donned  oilskins, 
silken  oilskins  these,  from  Hugo's  car,  and  with  their  owner 
similarly  arrayed,  stalked  out  after  Arnold.  The  next  moment 
their  voices,  wafted  on  an  air  languid  with  heavy  sea-salt, 
seemed  far  away :  in  another  briefer  lapse,  they  were  so  faintly 
audible  that  had  Beau  done  other  than  strain  his  ears,  he  must 
have  heard  only  mournful  fog-horn  and  tolling  bell-buoy. 

Then  the  whispering  began — or  seemed  to;  a  whispering 
that  froze  him.  He  sat,  motionless  by  the  open  window,  and, 
fearless  as  he  had  been  hitherto,  was  too  terrified  even  to  trem- 
ble. He  roused  himself  with  an  effort  beside  which  all  previous 
calls  on  his  will-power  were  as  willing  yieldings.  "Archie! 
Archie!!  Archie!!!  Archie!!!!"  He  dragged  him  to  a 
chair,  he  rubbed  his  wrists,  he  chafed  his  ankles,  calling  loudly 
whenever  he  had  the  breath.  Presently  Archie  groaned  and 
never  was  sound  sweeter  to  mortal. 

"Here,' — have  a  drink,"  urged  Beau;  but  then,  remember- 
ing, returned  the  whisky  to  the  decanter.  "No.  You'd  be  sick. 
They  don't  mix, — hop  and  whisky."  He  found  arnica  and 
bandaged  the  bruise,  soothing  the  excited  and  enraged  victim 
of  Arnold's  wrath.  Soon  they  had  resumed  their  positions 
on  the  floor,  the  window  closed,  the  curtains  drawn,  more 
wood  piled  upon  the  fire  so  that  its  blaze  banished  Beau's-  tem- 
porary fear  of  the  intangible. 

No  doubt  he  had  forgotten  Arnold's  accusation ;  or  had  not 


398  God's  Man 

believed  it  at  the  time.  Arnold  had  played  on  his  fears.  But, 
now  that  he  had  a  companion  again  and  the  cold  sea-fog  no 
longer  rolled  in  the  window  and  the  moaning  of  fog-horn  and 
tolling  of  bell-buoy  were  so  faint  as  to  be  almost  inaudible,  he 
only  remembered  that  his  nerves  were  severely  shaken  and 
that  the  "lay-out"  held  balm  for  such  infelicity.  He  was  of 
Pink's  mind,  save  that,  lacking  Pink's  plastic  quality,  he  was 
impervious  to  logic  not  in  accord  with  personal  experience. 
"It"  had  never  harmed  him;  therefore  Archie's  condition  had 
been  due  to  natural  excitement.  With  a  fortune  almost  in  his 
grasp,  "who  wouldn't  be  off  his  nut?"  Therefore,  when 
Archie  sullenly  demanded  his  share  of  the  cookery,  Pink 
yielded.  A  little  more  would  act  as  a  soporific,  he  argued 
again,  although,  of  course,  in  no  such  words. 

"You'll  drop  off  to  sleep.  Best  thing  for  you,"  said  this 
complaisant  "cook."  But  he  was  wrong.  There  are  no  ano- 
dynes for  such  neurotics  as  Archie,  only  anaesthetics :  nor  in 
lesser  quantities  do  they  act  as  mental  stimulants,  only  as 
excitants,  increasing  hysteria  until  it  becomes  ultimate,  and 
sheer  exhaustion  alone  brings  surcease.  As  in  a  thermome- 
ter placed  over  the  fire,  the  mercury  must  find  its  zenith  be- 
fore its  nadir,  must  rise  highest  before  falling  lowest,  thus 
Archie, — mercurial  enough  in  all  sooth.  And,  as  he  lay  and 
smoked,  while  Beau  relapsed  into  euphoria  Archie  brooded 
over  his  wrongs;  his  shrill  voice  rising  oftener  than  pleased 
Pink's  partner. 

"Can  it,  can  it,"  the  latter  urged.  "Ain't  you  got  a  chance 
to  cut  in  on  some  important  dough,  now?  Think  of  our  pals 
out  in  the  cold  and  wet  just  bringing  it  in  and  all  we  gotta  do 
is  take  it.  Nice  and  warm  and  full  of  the  poppy,  and  you're 
beefing!  You  wouldn't  be  satisfied  if  a  stranger  handed  you 
a  million.  Look  at  all  the  trouble  of  carrying  it  home! 
Why—" 

"Listen,"  whispered  Archie.  Then  suddenly,  but  with  exag- 
gerated caution,  he  rose  and,  seizing  Pink's  pistol  where  it  had 
fallen,  tiptoed  to  the  door  and  flung  it  open.  "Who's  there  ?" 


The  Night  of  the  Seventeenth     399 

he  challenged  in  his  high  shrill  voice.  "Who's  there.  I'll 
shoot  if  you  don't  answer."  Silence  only. 

"Don't  be  a  goat,  sucker,"  protested  Beau.  "That's  a  cold 
wind  you're  letting  in  and  it  ain't  welcome.  I'm  in  on  this 
shack  and  I  don't  want  no  visitors  like  that.  Shut  the  door." 

The  wind  had  risen.  One  wondered  how  it  could  rack  trees 
and  bang  shutters  and  roar  at  large  without  dispersing  those 
fog-banks;  and  at  times  it  seemed  to  shriek  as  though  their 
obduracy  annoyed  it,  then  returned  to  wreak  its  rage  upon  the 
trees  and  shutters  as  before.  It  had  stilled  for  a  moment  as 
though  taking  on  extra  strength  and  then  it  was  that  Archie 
had  imagined  he  heard  a  stealthy  footfall  close  to  the  bay- 
window.  Now  he  seized  the  shaded  student's-lamp  from  the 
table  and  bore  it,  held  aloft,  to  the  door,  but  before  it  could 
do  more  than  fringe  with  yellow  the  inner  shadows,  a  mighty 
sea-gust  roared  over  it  and  all  was  dark  again. 

"Come  on  in,"  shouted  Beau  impatiently.  "You  make  me 
tired,  sap-head.  Come  on,  I  tell  you,  or  I'll  bend  the  pipe  over 
your  nut.  Come  on,  now."  The  chill  blast  had  sent  him  shiv- 
ering to  the  fire.  Archie  reluctantly  closed  the  door  and  re- 
placed the  lamp. 

"I  heard  somebody  just  outside,"  he  asserted  excitedly.  "If 
I  didn't,  may  I  never  see  daylight  again.  I  hope  to  die  if 
I  didn't  hear  somebody  as  plain  as  I  hear  you,  somebody 
sneaking  around  right  under  that  window." 

Beau  expostulated  in  his  usual  idiom;  then  crossed  to  the 
door  and  locked  it,  pocketing  the  key.  "You'll  do  well  if  you 
hear  it  again,"  he  chuckled.  "If  you  think  I'm  going  to 
be  froze  outa  house  and  home,  you  want  to  go  to  thinking 
school  and  begin  life  all  over  agen.  Now  I  gotta  have  a  few 
more  puffs  to  take  the  chill  outa  my  system.  But  no  more  for 
you,  sucker.  You'll  be  hearing  the  little  whales  singing  in  the 
ocean  if  I  give  you  any  more." 

But  Beau,  for  all  his  wisdom,  had  been  wrong.  Archie's 
hearing  was  too  acute  to  be  at  fault.  When  he  heard  them  Mc- 
Kiss  and  Jones  had  decided  that  the  time  had  come  for  them 


400  God's  Man 

to  take  action.  Therefore,  they  had  wriggled  out  from  be- 
neath the  chalet,  which,  built  on  piles,  afforded  excellent  con- 
cealment, if  poor  shelter  from  the  chilly  air.  Out  they  wrig- 
gled and  stealthily  crept  away.  Gaining  the  woods,  they  pro- 
ceeded, by  intermittent  flashes  of  a  pocket  torch,  toward  the 
residence  of  the  Honnible  Johnnie. 

II.   "MABCHING  As  To  WAR" 

Dinner  was  over,  but  Waldemar  and  the  Squire  still  sat  in 
the  glow  of  the  shaded  candles  that  decorated  the  Hartogen- 
sis  mahogany,  when,  to  quote  Pink:  "instead  of  a  rock  and 
rope  and  finding  the  nearest  river  and  jumping  in,  they're 
doing  it  with  a  bomb  and  taking  some  rich  guy  along  to  carry 
their  grip"  .  .  .  Particularly,  "rich  guys"  of  Walde- 
mar's  sort  when  discovered  in  such  plots  against  the  public 
peace  as  the  Yew  Tree  "proposition" ; — which  he  was  now  pre- 
pared to  put  into  operation. 

As  per  certain  papers  spread  out  on  the  Hartogensis  ma- 
hogany and  truncating  the  long  witch  faces  of  a  handful 
of  Hartogensis  candles, — the  Squire  clung  to  candles, 
whether  for  a  commendable  reason  or  as  part  of  his 
pose  ...  is  not  weighty  enough  to  detain  us. 
Doilies,  too, — Cluny  lace  over  Japanese  mats.  And  a 
burglar's  sackful  of  shining  Sheffield  and  silverware,  held 
the  first  and  held  down  on  the  second.  Dinner  was  over 
when  Jones  and  McKiss  learned  that  Waldemar,  while  in  resi- 
dence was  not  in  presence,  and  started  for  the  Squire's. 

Butler  (this  dignified  servant,  by  a  freak  of  nomenclature 
having  that  for  surname  as  well  as  occupation)  was  dismissed 
about  that  time,  too. 

"Here  /are,  partner,"  quoth  the  Honnible  Johnnie,  and 
grinned.  The  Squire,  frowning  slightly,  examined  the  half- 
sheet  of  scribbling.  Scribbling,  it  seemed,  but,  really,  it  was 
the  best  Waldemar  could  do:  his  slight  decrease  in  illiteracy 
had  come  too  late  for  any  grace  of  outline. 


The  Night  of  the  Seventeenth     401 

"There's  the  proposition,  and  here's  my  offer  on  it."  Cer- 
tain sums  and  rates  of  interest,  percentages  representing  rents 
and  shares  in  his  business,  along  with  the  ratios  of  probable 
increases  consequent  on  the  new  investment,  were  set  forth 
so  plainly  that  even  an  outsider  could  have  understood  that 
what  was  proposed  was  genuine. 

"Well,  partner?"  Waldemar  inquired  softly,  having  con- 
sumed the  contents  of  two  pipes  and  several  glasses. 

The  Squire  came  out  of  his  pleasant  reverie  with  a  start. 
He  had  ceased  to  see  figures  on  the  paper,  was  looking  on 
fairer  fancies:  Exmoor,  his  pet  and  pride,  ornamented  and 
adorned,  added  to  in  acreage  and  improved  out  of  all  present 
appearance.  He  sat  up,  concealing  his  amazement,  and  un- 
thinkingly combed  his  neat  whiskers  with  his  pencil.  "It 
seems  a  fair  offer,  "Waldemar,"  he  said,  striving  for  his  usual 
judicial  calm.  "It  seems  a  very  fair  offer.  It  seems — "  He 
checked  himself,  realizing  his  speech  was  mechanical,  but 
finding  no  words  suited  to  his  dignity  and  to  his  acumen  as  a 
business  man,  only  nodded. 

"You  said  your  grandson  'ud  be  a  big  man  in  these  here 
parts,"  chuckled  Waldemar.  "Well:  looks  like  he'll  be  a  big- 
ger one,  don't  it?  I've  got  some  idears  about  my  own  grand- 
son, Squire.  Many  a  time  I  remember  how  I  used  to  see  these 
here  big  Russian  landowners  sorta  snaking  their  whip  to  warn 
the  moujiks  to  get  out  of  the  way."  In  his  enthusiasm,  he 
forgot  his  claim  that  he  was  the  son  of  such  a  whip-snaker. 
Neither  man  noticed  the  discrepancy  now. 

"Yes,  sir"  he  continued:  "And  I  often  think:  America's 
a  young  country;  give  her  time  and  she'll  be  thataway,  her- 
self. In  the  end,  it's  the  land.  Those  that  own  the  land  own 
the  country.  Trusts  can  go  bust  and  banks  can  blow  up,  but 
you've  got  the  only  right  idear.  They  can't  take  the  land  away 
from  you.  And  I  was  thinking: — what's  to  prevent  us  two 
from  owning  all  the  land  hereabouts.  You  show  me  where  you 
want  to  spread  out,  and  I'll  spread  out  the  other  way.  And 
by  the  time  our  grandsons  are  our  age, — just  as  you  say — 


402  God's  Man 

we'll  about  own  all  of  this  here  Havre  de  Grace.  Then  we  can 
elect  anybody  we  like;  jest  run  the  whole  shooting-match  to 
suit  ourselves.  People  living  on  your  land,  getting  their  bread 
and  butter  out  of  you,  ain't  a-going  to  vote  agen  you,  is  they  ?" 

Squire  Hartogensis  appeared  to  share  his  belief;  but  with 
the  mental  reservation  that  he  would  have  preferred  the  sen- 
timent to  emanate  from  one  better  equipped  in  vocabulary. 
So  precious  a  thought  should  be  couched  in  dignity  of  phrase. 
He  was  about  to  remedy  the  deficiency  of  his  fellow  reaction- 
ary, incidentally  emphasizing  his  own  priority  in  the  idea, 
when  his  butler  made  an  annoying  entrance  after  an  equally 
annoying  knock. 

"Two  men,  Squire  Hartogensis,  sir,"  said  the  butler  im- 
passively, "insist  on  seeing  Mr.  Waldemar,  sir.  Not  my  fault, 
Squire.  They  simply  refuse  to  go.  They  say  Mr.  Waldemar 
will  be  glad  to  see  them  when  he  hears  what  they  have  to 
tell  him.  .  .  .  Yes,  they  seem  respectable,  Mr.  Waldemar. 
.  .  .  No  names,  no,  sir.  .  .  .  Not  natives,  no,  Squire. 
City  folk  I  judge.  Said  to  show  you  this,  Mr.  Waldemar,  and 
you  would  surely  see  them." 

He  brought  forward  the  silver  card-tray,  to  which  his  white- 
gloved  thumb  held  tightly  a  scrap  of  paper  evidently  torn  from 
the  edge  of  a  magazine  advertising  page,  and  on  which  was 
written  a  word  in  Latin.  The  word  was  "Papaver"  printed 
rudely  in  pencil,  followed  by  a  written  phrase  quite  as  illegible 
and  mysterious  to  one  with  no  previous  suspicion  of  its  mean- 
ing: "ALIAS  THE  POPPY." 

Waldemar  looked  up  sharply.  "Can  you  make  this  out, 
Butler?"  he  asked.  Butler,  the  impressive,  shook  his  head 
impressively. 

"It  was  not  for  me  to  attempt  to  decipher  it,  sir?"  he  re- 
buked; an  answer  and  an  attitude  that  pleased  his  master 
mightily. 

"Neither  can  I,"  lied  the  Honnible  Johnnie.  It  was  not  his 
scholarship  that  made  it  possible  for  him  to  be  mendacious, 
but  for  a  reason  of  which  McKiss  had  been  well  aware :  the 


The  Night  of  the  Seventeenth     403 

labels  pasted  on  his  jars  by  his  better  informed  chemists  bore 
the  name  "Papaver." 

He  glanced  slyly  at  the  Squire.  "But  I  think  it's  some  im- 
portant business  from  town, — syndicate  business,  partner.  I 
may  have  to  leave  you  and  take  these  men  over  to  my  place. 
What  time  will  you  be  ready  to  go  up  in  the  morning?  I'll 
have  the  car  start  at  any  time  you  say?" 

"At  any  time  you  say,"  corrected  the  Squire.  His  eyes  had 
never  really  left  that  sheet  of  figures  whose  cold  fragments, 
like  bits  of  a  jigsaw  puzzle,  made  such  a  warm  ensemble: — 
a  transfigured  Exmoor,  an  Exmoor  like  Lord  What's-His- 
Name  or  that  of  Sir  Moses  Norfolk,  money-lender  to  the 
British  nation — and  others.  .  .  . 

"Waldemar  named  an  early  hour,  suppressing  his  impatience, 
and  the  Squire  mechanically  agreed.  They  parted,  each  shak- 
ing hands  with  the  past,  equally  unaware  of  the  present  that 
awaited  outside,  and  the  future  that  waited  beyond  in  the 
Swiss  chalet. 

III.  THE  AWAKENING  OF  ME.  McKiss 

At  the  sight  of  the  earnest  Eugene,  the  Honnible  Johnnie 
congratulated  himself  on  his  acumen.  City  fellows  didn't 
travel  so  far  from  home  and  send  in  such  messages  without 
having  matters  of  import  to  discuss.  He  thanked  God  that, 
for  all  his  success,  he  had  not  grown  haughty  like  Old  Man 
Hartogensis. 

"How  did  you  know  I  was  down  here?"  he  asked  McKiss 
when  he  and  the  worthy  pair  were  within  his  touring  limou- 
sine, the  same  that  had  taken  Arnold  to  his  graduation  as  a 
"good  business  man." 

"Just  plain  accident,  young  fel — Congressman,  I  mean,"  re- 
turned McKiss  jovially.  "Heard  you'd  be  here  to-night.  Sit- 
ting around  at  our  hotel  when  your  house  phoned  for  some- 
thing, and  mentioned  you  were  coming  down,  and  that  you 
said  you'd  drop  in  to-morrow  and  pass  the  time  of  day.  Al- 


404  God's  Man 

ways  making  yourself  solid  with  the  voters,  hey,  Congress- 
man?" 

McKiss  knew  his  man;  knew  his  record,  business  and  po- 
litical; had  once  visited  him  as  the  emissary  of  a  metropoli- 
tan weekly,  of  no  particular  importance,  politically,  hence  un- 
affiliated  and  selling  its  silence  to  those  able  to  afford  it,  or 
unable  to,  socially  speaking.  In  spite  of  its  notorious  corrup- 
tion, it  was  influential,  socially.  McKiss,  whose  particular 
brand  of  honesty  was  to  stay  bought,  was  their  "investigation 
expert/'  Unable  to  shake  down  luscious  plums  like  "city  ad- 
vertising" it  appealed,  first  to  Csesarean  purses,  then  to  lovers 
of  sensational  scandal.  Either  increased  its  advertising  rates. 
.  .  .  For  instance,  Mr.  Waldemar,  thinking  of  his  son's 
social  future  and  of  the  iniquitous  activities  of  private  Up- 
lifts, had  advertised  his  business  uselessly,  unusually,  expen- 
sively— but  amicably. 

Hence  the  sight  of  McKiss  was  no  unmixed  joy;  it  might 
mean  a  further  bulling  of  the  blackmail  market.  The  de- 
tective was  not  apt  to  force  an  interview  unless  warranted. 
It  was  likely,  however,  that  McKiss  came  for  more  friendly 
reasons.  Waldemar  could  recall  nothing  at  the  moment  with 
which  he  could  be  threatened. 

Wisely,  he  contained  himself  while  the  car  took  the  hilly 
roads  from  Hartogensis  Hall  to  Waldemar  House.  One  must 
speak  loudly  to  overcome  the  noise  of  the  engine,  the  grinding 
of  the  wheels,  the  hissing  of  the  exhaust — only  a  thin  partition 
separated  them  from  the  chauffeur. 

"We  never  had  any  idea  of  taking  you  in  with  this  at  all, 
Congressman,"  McKiss  ventured,  as  they  came  to  a  level 
stretch  where  a  whisper  might  be  heard.  "We  come  down 
here  all  on  our  little  lonelies.  That  is  7  come  down,  and  this 
young  fellow,  friend  of  mine  and  side-kicker,  come  down  to- 
night bringing  a  car.  But  when  I  heard  about  you  at  the 
hotel  I  said  to  myself :  'There's  our  man !  Burly  thinks  so,  too. 
Shake  hands  with  the  Congressman,  Burly, — Mr.  Jones,  Con* 
gressman  Waldemar — Don't  you,  Burly?  .  .  ." 


The  Night  of  the  Seventeenth    405 

He  waited  for  a  reassuring  nod.  "Well,  then,"  continued 
McKiss,  "as  soon  as  we  made  sure  the  deal  was  to  be  pulled 
off  to-night  we  come  right  to  your  house — your  people  sent 
us  to  the  Squire's. — Does  that  Squire  mean  the  same  here  as 
in  the  city?" 

"Meaning  is  he  a  judge?  Yes,  son,"  agreed  Waldemar, 
puffing  at  his  cigar  to  conceal  his  delight  at  what,  if  he  read 
the  oracle  aright,  was  happy  augury.  "Least,"  he  went  on, 
killing  time,  "what  they  call  a  judge.  But  he  never  had 
anything  worse  than  wife-beaters  and  chicken-stealers  to  do 
any  judgin'  on,  so  maybe  'tain't  the  same  as  in  the  city  after 
all." 

The  car  at  last  quivered  to  a  standstill  under  the  stone 
archway  of  the  Waldemar  House  porte-cochere,  and  the  great 
doors  were  flung  wide  by  a  sleepy  footman  semi-Orientally 
liveried.  Once  within  McKiss  observed  with  the  curiosity 
that  had  yielded  him  an  approach  to  an  education,  the  stained 
glass  let  into  the  arches  above  the  doors  of  the  squat  Gothic 
vestibule,  studies  from  a  Khudyakof  Skazka.* 

McKiss  stared  not  because  they  were  artistic,  but  because 
they  were  horrible. 

The  key-window  represented  the  Kashoube  Yiezscy,  a  sex- 
less Vampire,  seated  in  a  coffin  and  gnawing  at  his  own  arm. 
All  were  the  work  of  a  never-to-be-sung  Beardsley,  a  night- 
mare colorist  of  some  "Futurist"  school,  who  had  discovered 
how  to  paint  three  dimensions.  But,  what  was  more  im- 
portant, he  had  persuaded  Waldemar  to  accept  these  ghastly 
caricatures, 

*Skazka  is  saga,  practically 


406  God's  Man 

".  .  .  Not  as  a  connoisseur,  but  as  a  Russian,  sir.  The 
subject  is  Slavonic,  typically  Slavonic,  Mr.  Waldemar." 

Impressed  by  the  way  people  stared,  the  Slavonic  one  had 
learned  to  admire  this  cycle  of  ghoulish  jests  for  their  atten- 
tion-compelling qualities.  Even  so  uncultivated  a  man  as  a 
New  York  plain  clothes  man  was  captivated.  Temporarily  dis- 
missing his  own  curiosity  to  pander  to  that  of  his  guests,  he 
explained  his  Penates  with  the  naif  pride  of  ownership. 

"Kussian,  sure.  You've  heard  of  the  Vampire.  That's  him. 
He's  chewing  at  his  own  arm  so's  his  wife  and  children  will 
die,  see  ?  Then  in  the  next  picture  they're  dying  and  there  he 
is  peeking  in  the  winder  outside.  ,  .  .  Laughin',  the  old 
devil.  Some  idear,  hey?" 

As  lie  turned  of!  to  give  some  directions  to  the  sleepy  foot- 
man, McKiss,  an  inherently  religious  young  man,  crossed  him- 
self devoutly  and  muttered  something  strictly  Hibernian, 
heard  in  his  cradle-days,  or  soon  after,  from  his  Galway 
mother. 

"No  good  luck  'ull  come  from  flyin'  in  the  face  of  Provi- 
dence like  that,"  he  whispered  in  an  awed  tone,  to  the  stolid 
Jones.  McKiss  feared  no  man,  but  where  were  the  saints  with- 
out demons  to  triumph  over? 

For  the  first  time  in  their  acquaintance,  Jones  was  con- 
scious that  cowardice  was  possible  to  McKiss.  He  had  un- 
doubtedly shuddered. 

"I  wish  I  was  well  out  of  this,"  he  added.  "I  wish  I  hadn't 
been  so  bright,  young  fellow.  I  wish  Waldemar  was  in  hell 
with  his  Vampires  as  any  devil  desarves  to  be  that  has  pic- 
tures like  that,  for  a  sacrilege  it  is  and  nothing  else,  the  brass 
av  him !" 

McKiss  had  the  habit  during  excitement,  or  stress,  of  re- 
turning to  his  early  pronunciations  and  inflections — which 
also  came  direct  from  Galway. 

"What  I  mean,  Burly,  the  idea  of  these  stained-glass  win- 
dows is  sorta  stolen  from  the  Church,"  he  said,  quieting  down 
and  resuming  his  American  idioms.  "It's  a  sort  of  religious 


The  Night  of  the  Seventeenth     407 

idea.  And  then  to  put  a  blood-sucking  devil  digging  up  graves 
on  one  of  'em ! — " 

Emotion  overcame  him.  Jones,  disgusted  with  his  part- 
ner's puerility,  left  him  to  whisper  to  himself. 

In  the  high  stone-walled  library  Waldemar  was  overseeing 
the  selection  of  certain  whiskies  and  liquors,  the  footman  hav- 
ing wheeled  in  a  portable  cellaret. 

"Pucker  can  get  you  some  chicken  and  salad  and  cham- 
pagne," he  further  suggested.  Hospitality,  the  offering  of 
food  and  drink,  especially  drink,  was  a  second  nature  with  the 
Honnible  Johnnie.  For  his  liberality,  men  gave  him  their 
lives  to  order  as  he  willed,  he  and  his  fellows,  those  foolish 
sheep. 

But  these  were  birds  of  the  night,  not  sheep;  rather  giant 
hawks,  sheep  devourers  also.  Jones  was  twiddling  his  thumbs 
and  refusing  refreshment,  and  showing  no  gratitude  toward 
the  profferer.  "Send  him  away,  Congressman,"  he  growled. 
Waldemar  nodded  and  Pucker  went. 

•"Now,  Mac,"  said  Jones,  exasperated. 

Mac  needed  to  see  a  doctor, — Jones  was  trying  to  be  char- 
itable. "McKiss  afraid !  Afraid  of  what  ?" 

"See  here,  Congressman,"  Jones  broke  in  roughly.  "I  ain't 
a  man  to  talk.  But  the  fact  is — well — I  guess  my  pal  over 
there  must  a  hurt  his  head.  And  there's  about  a  hundred 
thousand  dollars'  worth  of  opium  gunna  be  landed  to-night 
not  two  miles  from  here." 

The  announcement  coming  so  unexpectedly,  the  Honnible 
Johnnie  had  no  time  to  prepare  his  face  with  a  look  of  indif- 
ference, but  gaped  like  any  schoolboy. 

"How  do  you  know  ?"  came  out  involuntarily. 

"Because  three  people  left  to  land  it  off'n  a  ship  out 
there" — Jones  waved  toward  the  Sound — "not  haff'n  hour 
ago.  My  pal,  here,  could  put  all  this  more  delicate  than  me, 
Congressman.  This  ain't  my  end  of  the  deal.  But,— you'll 
have  to  excuse  me  sayin'  so, — you'll  have  to  decide  qiiick. 
We're  gunna  make  a  bluff  at  pinching  these  guys  and  then  let 


408  God's  Man 

'em  get  away — there's  only  about  haff-a-dozen  of  'em;  then 
we'll  cop  the  stuff  and  bring  it  over  to  your  snare.  I  come 
down  in  a  Packthread  tourer, — holds  eight  passengers — and 
we  oughta  be  able  to  do  it  in  ten  or  fifteen  loads — meanin'  by 
daybreak.  Now  if  we  do,  is  it  fifty-fifty  ? 

"If  you  won't,"  he  added,  rising,  seeing  that  "Waldemar 
made  no  sign.  "All  we  ask  you  to  do  is  to  forget  it  and  we'll 
do  what  we  intended  to  before  we  saw  you;  cart  it  along  the 
cliffs  or  out  in  the  woods  somewheres  and  hide  it.  That  is, 
hide  all  over  what  we  can  take  up  to  town  our  first  trip.  Then 
come  back  for  the  rest  as  we  sell  it.  It's  up  to  you.  There's  a 
lot  of  work,  thataway,  and  a  lot  of  risk,  so  when  my  pal,  here, 
saw  you  Jsaf  ternoon.  .  .  ." 

He  went  back  laboriously  to  his  premise,  and  began  again 
his  many  repetitions.  Like  most  strong  simple  men,  he  con- 
ceived it  an  easy  matter  to  be  direct  in  narrative.  Few  laymen 
know  that  a  complex  tale  told  lucidly  is  an  art-form  that  even 
master-craftsmen  achieve  only  after  long  and  arduous  appren- 
ticeship. Mr.  Jones  became  more  obscure  with  every  clause 
and  correlation,  finally  compelling  McKiss  to  intervene. 

"It's  like  this,  Congressman"  ...  he  began  mechan- 
ically. If  his  explanation  lacked  Jones'  obscurity,  in  part,  it 
lacked  his  enthusiasm  altogether.  The  same  black  dog  was  on 
his  back,  as  had  been  on  Arnold's  earlier  in  the  evening — the 
same  curious  apprehension  weighed  him  down. 

Had  some  Eochefort  Cafe  reveler  suddenly  spat  at  a  cru- 
cifix or  trampled  on  a  rosary,  the  same  apprehension  would 
have  come  to  him,  and — the  alembic  of  habit  shattered — he 
would  have  examined  his  life  and  found  it  evil.  But  those 
who  do  physical  evil  have  violent  revulsions  to  spiritual  good ; 
the  lawless  folk  he  knew  best  respected  religious  symbols; 
religion  yielding  many  exquisite  emotions.  Agnosticism  was 
much  more  likely  to  be  found  in  the  sturdier  Welsh  type  of 
Jones ;  one  without  sufficient  sophistry  to  reconcile  repentance 
with  continued  relapses.  As  for  atheism  that  was  part  and 


The  Night  of  the  Seventeenth     409 

parcel  of  the  ruthless  type,  represented  by  the  Waldemars,  the 
business  buccaneer. 

No  one  but  an  atheist,  McKiss  knew,  could  have  that  horri- 
ble stained-glass  in  his  house.  As  he  explained  what  Jones 
had  failed  to  make  clear,  a  violent  hatred  for  his  host  welled 
up  in  McKiss.  Yet  half  an  hour  earlier,  he  had  chuckled  over 
Waldemar' s  joke  about  a  corrupt  judiciary. 

Now,  by  the  mere  sight  of  a  disgruntled  artist's  diablerie, 
had  been  accomplished  one  of  those  modern  miracles  that  hap- 
pen every  day  everywhere ;  a  miracle  of  the  mind,  more  super- 
normal than  any  of  the  flesh,  a  sudden  straightening  of  dis- 
torted vision  due  to  a  violent  blow, — between  the  eyes ! 

The  religion  of  Eugene  McKiss  was  real  enough;  only  its 
application  had  been  at  fault.  Now,  dimly  apprehending, 
Eugene's  sense  of  sin  became  oppressive.  He  was  weighed 
down  with  it,  weary-eyed,  weary  of  soul. 

"And  you  don't  even  know  who  these  fellows  are?"  asked 
Waldemar;  too  rapt  in  the  narrative  to  observe  the  nar- 
rator. 

"If s  all  a  piece  of  the  same  dirty  washing,"  McKiss  found 
himself  saying,  hardly  less  to  the  surprise  of  his  own  conscious 
self  than  to  the  slowly  dawning  rage  of  Jones.  "You  see  one 
of  these  young  fellows  is  supporting  a  girl.  And  she's  sup- 
porting the  little  rat  who  told  us.  Maybe  she  don't  know  she's 
supporting  him.  .  .  ." 

Waldemar  nodded.  Petty's  kind  had  been  profitable 
"sleigh-riders"  when  he  provided  "snow"  on  Seventh  Avenue. 

"Well,  the  rat's  afraid  to  let  us  know  the  name  of  her  par- 
ticular young  fellow,"  McKiss  continued.  "He  thinks  we'll 
get  some  more  easy  money,  blackmailing  him — " 

Burly  Jones  leaped  up.  "See  here,  Mac,"  he  shouted,  his 
eyes  wicked.  "Blackmail! — are  you  crazy?" 

"The  rat's  reserved  the  blackmail  privilege  as  part  of  his 
share,"  McKiss  went  on,  unheeding.  "It's  part  of  our  bargain 
not  to  try  to  find  out  any  names.  Anyway,  we  don't  want  to. 


410  God's  Man 

If  they  knew  we  knew,  they  could  blackmail  us!  An  awfully 
dirty  lot  of  laundry,  all  around,  all  right.  But  I  started  and 
I'll  go  through.  What's  the  answer?" 

"Good  boy !"  said  Waldemar ;  and,  trying  to  laugh  away  this 
ugly  language,  guffawed  loudly.  "If  it  is  dirty,  it's  time  it  did 
some  clean  fellows  some  good !  Hey  ?  Of  course  /  don't  know 
anything  about  it,  though,  do  I  ?" 

He  winked.  "But  if  I  was  to  find  a  lot  of  valuable  stuff  in 
my  stables  to-morrow.  And  if  a  coupla  friends  said  it  was  a 
present,  I  couldn't  accept  it  without  giving  something  in  re- 
turn, could  I  ?  Course  they  might  insist  on  not  taking  more 
than  half  what  it  was  worth,  and  the  best  I  could  do  then 
would  be  to  leave  them  the  other  half  in  my  will." 

His  ostensible  hearty  habit  of  guffawing  made  McKiss  hate 
him  more  than  ever. 

Beckoning  them  to  the  main  hall,  "Waldemar  bade  the  tired 
Pucker  be  off  to  bed.  "I'll  lock  up,  my  boy,"  he  said  genially. 
When  the  footman  had  disappeared  by  a  servant's  hallway 
under  the  stairs,  Waldemar  opened  a  paneled  door,  disclosing 
an  electric  switchboard  and  a  key-rack,  and  selecting  two  keys, 
the  larger  for  a  hasp  padlock,  the  other  for  a  chain,  he  laughed 
unrestrainedly.  Waldemar's  decision  surprised  Jones  as  well 
as  increased  the  hatred  of  McKiss,  who  feared  he  would  com- 
mit some  violence  if  not  soon  rid  of  the  sight  of  him.  Slip- 
ping into  a  short  walking-coat  of  heavy  frieze,  Waldemar  an- 
nounced, patronizingly,  he  would  go  with  them  part  of  the 
way. 

"I've  got  an  idea  I  know  what  house  that  is,"  he  chuckled. 
"I  wonder  if  that's  what  his  'important  business'  was.  The 
young  rogue !  Takin'  a  leaf  out  of  somebody's  book,  eh  ? 
He'll  be  all  the  more  valuable  to  somebody  after  this.  Lots  of 
good  experience,  but  no  money  to  make  him  cocky.  If  it's  the 
one  I  think  it  is,  McKiss,  you're  quite  right  about  his  not  af- 
fording the  notoriety.  His  father's  a  very  respected  man  in 
these  parts,  the  only  one  they  take  their  hats  off  to.  They 
don't  do  it  to  the  Squire  or  me,  who  could  buy  and  sell  him 


The  Night  of  the  Seventeenth     411 

fifty  times  over.  .  .  .  What  did  you  hear  while  you  were 
hiding  under  that  house  ?  Any  names  or  anything  ?" 

McKiss  answered  shortly  that  they  had  not.  There  had 
been  some  kind  of  a  fight  and  some  piano-playing.  That  was 
all  they  could  make  out.  Then  three  men  had  come  out,  wear- 
ing oilskins  and  fishermen's  boots.  They  had  heard  them  say 
enough,  outside,  to  know  they  were  off  in  a  motor-boat  to 
cruise  around  until  they  picked  up  some  ship.  One  of  them 
had  asked  how  many  trips  they  would  have  to  make  before 
the  cargo  was  landed  and  another  had  replied,  "Probably 
four."  He  thought  he  knew  one  of  the  voices,  a  Tenderloin 
Voice  certainly.  But  it  had  been  too  dark  to  see  any  one. 

And  now  they  were  going  back  to  lie  in  wait  for  the  re- 
hirn  of  this  trio. 

"But  I  don't  advise  you  to  come  along,  Congressman,"  Mc- 
fciss  said  sourly.  "You  walk  too  heavy,  for  one  thing.  You'll 
give  us  away.  They're  suspicious  enough  as  it  is.  One  of  the 
young  fellows  they  left  behind  heard  us  crawling  out  from 
under  and  came  to  the  door.  And  if  the  wind  hadn't  blown 
out  his  lamp,  lie  mighta  blown  out  somebody's  brains.  Any- 
way he  was  shouting  he'd  shoot  if  we  didn't  produce  regular 
passports." 

"Much  chance  him  shootin'  if  it's  who  I  think  it  is !"  Wal- 
demar  was  all  genial  scorn. 

"But,  of  course,  it  mightn't  be.  There's  five  of  those 
shootin'-boxes,  as  they  call  'em,  though  they're  pretty  large 
boxes,  along  the  cliffs,  and  all  a  few  miles  from  here.  What 
does  it  look  like  exactly." 

"Considering  we've  never  been  there  except  at  night,  sorry 
not  to  be  able  to  oblige  you,"  returned  McKiss,  exasperated. 
"We  called  up  the  phone  exchange,  but  the  directions  they 
gave  us  wasn't  worth  the  trouble.  So  we  had  to  waste  our 
time  scouting  around  three  of  'em  before  we  found  the  right 
one.  The  others  were  all  boarded  up.  Each  one's  on  a  hill, 
each  one's  surrounded  by  trees  so  the  ducks  can't  see  it, — or 
you  either.  And  at  night  you're  liable  to  walk  right  off  the 


412  God's  Man 

earth  if  you  ain't  careful.  Specially  a  dark  night  like  this.  I 
wouldn't  go  if  I  were  you,  Mr.  Waldemar ;  what  good'll  it  do 
you?" 

"Oh,  let  him  alone,  Mac,"  said  Jones  irritably. 

McKiss  relapsed  into  gloom  and  walked  on  ahead,  occa- 
sionally flashing  the  pocket  torch  enclosed  in  his  palm.  The 
chalet's  telephone  number  yielding  Waldemar  no  further  in- 
formation, he  too  fell  silent;  only  the  possibility  of  it  being 
Arnold's  scheme  that  was  to  be  circumvented,  produced,  now 
and  again,  a  ruminative  chuckle. 

"I  always  said  he'd  make  a  good  business  man,"  reflected 
the  Honnible  Johnnie.  And  guffawed  loudly. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  do  that,"  urged  McKiss  pathetically. 
Whenever  Waldemar  chuckled,  McKiss  seemed  to  see  the 
stained-glass  Vampire  grinning.  He  felt  he  would  go  mad  if 
that  infernal  chuckle  came  again.  To  one  suffering  from  a 
sense  of  guilt,  yet  pursuing  his  guilty  way,  the  sighing  of  the 
trees,  the  occasional  hoots  of  owls  and  wails  of  whip-poor- 
wills,  and  the  fact  that  the  fog  made  it  well  nigh  impossible  to 
distinguish  objects  a  hand's  breadth  beyond,  meant  sinister 
visioning  to  one  of  a  superstitious  race,  seeing  with  the  eye  of 
an  awakened  conscience. 

Jones,  recognizing  in  his  friend's  voice  a  note  to  be  feared, 
fell  back.  "Don't  mind  him,"  he  whispered  as  he  pressed 
Waldemar's  arm.  "He's  all  worked  up,  the  crazy  Harp  .  .  ." 

The  fog  was  thicker  by  the  time  they  left  the  Waldemar  es- 
tate for  the  open  field,  part  of  the  little  property  retained  by 
the  Indian-negroes  over  Snake  Hollow  way,  bisected  by  a 
foot-path  leading  to  their  village. 

McKiss,  cautiously  inspecting  his  surroundings  by  the  aid 
of  flashes  from  his  shielded  pocket-torch,  announced  that  they 
had  lost  their  way. 

Waldemar,  more  familiar  with  the  country,  proffered  assist- 
ance. "If  it's  the  place  I  think  it  is,"  he  affirmed,  after  a  sim- 
ilar investigation,  "we've  come  half  a  mile  we  needn't  have." 

Under  his  guidance,  they  crawled  back  through  his  barbed 


The  Night  of  the  Seventeenth     413 

wire  fence  and  plunged  into  his  woods  again.  The  tolling  of 
the  bell  on  the  channel-buoy,  and  the  mournful  mooing  of  the 
Middle-Ground  fog-horn,  proved  he  knew  whither  he  led 
them,  proved  the  final  undoing  of  McKiss'  nerves.  So  much 
so  that,  when  they  sank  knee-deep  into  a  gully  full  of  leaves 
and  a  flock  of  pheasants  rose  about  them  with  shrill  and  dis- 
cordant screams,  cold  sweat  stood  out  on  his  forehead.  His 
heart  began  beating  wildly. 

He  was  all  nerves.  To  him  the  forest  was  alive  with  the 
creatures  of  Irish  legend  and  Eoman  myth,  the  good  spirits 
bidding  him  beware  "ere  it  was  too  late,"  the  demons  cackling 
over  his  fast  approaching  destruction.  He  seemed  to  hear 
light  footfalls  on  the  forest  floor,  lighter  whisperings  over- 
head. He  wanted  to  shriek,  to  run  wildly  back  toward  lights 
and  civilization.  But  the  courage  of  cowardice,  the  lack  of 
moral  courage,  kept  him  on  his  predestined  way. 

And  then  a  sullen  desperation  settled  on  him,  a  new  hy- 
pothesis presenting  itself.  Did  he  think  that  sudden  repent- 
ance, without  penance,  sufficed  to  wipe  out  the  wrong  he  had 
done  in  the  last  five  years?  .  .  . 

Suddenly,  out  of  nowhere,  was  limned  for  him  the  meeting 
of  a  shabby  curly-haired  boy  and  a  cherry-hatted  girl  whose 
hard  eyes  softened  at  the  sight  of  him ;  limned  in  the  light  of 
a  ghostly  carbon-candle  crackling  and  "sputtering  in  a  great 
elliptical  glass-bubble,  high  overhead. 

Against  its  pole,  he  leaned  and  listened.  But  suddenly  and 
almost  with  a  snarl,  he  broke  and  ran  most  of  the  way 
home.  .  .  . 

Such  had  McKiss  been.  Long  afterward,  some  one  had 
brought  him  news  of  Father  Collins.  The  old  priest  had 
begged  his  bishop  to  transfer  him  from  the  city ;  he  had  lost 
faith  when  his  best-loved  altar-boy  had  gone  the  accepted 
New  York  way. 

A  thought  shaped  itself  somehow,  in  McKiss's  mind ;  he  was 
to  begin  doing  penance  for  all  the  ill  he  had  wrought  since 
then.  He  passed  from  fear  to  desperation,  from  desperation 


414  God's  Man 

to  a  sort  of  fierce  frenzy.  Let  God  have  it  over  and  done  with. 
Then  he  might  begin  living  it  down.  He  remembered  that 
the  Canton  Street  Parish-House  wanted  some  one  as  big  of 
heart  as  of  biceps  to  salvage  human  flotsam.  The  offer  had 
been  made  to  one  of  his  Catholic  confreres  who  had  retold  it 
to  the  Central  Office  as  a  rare  jest.  (McKiss  recalled,  roaring, 
too.) 

Now  he  was  conscious  of  a  desperate  hope  that  perhaps 
the  size  of  his  heart  might  be  condoned — not  the  dimin- 
ished size  of  it — it  was  large  enough,  but  bloated;  fattened, 
rich  with  unhealthy  fat  as  any  Strasburg  goose — but  of 
sentimental  substance.  McKiss  would  have  sobbed  more 
loudly  than  Archie  at  Pink's  pianissimo  pathos;  he  had 
trained  himself  to  sob  just  as  he  had  trained  himself  to 
give  dimes  to  army  lassies — then,  conscious  of  his  recti- 
tude, he  could  collect  the  dollars  of  the  lassies  of  the  larger 
army.  He  knew  why  now ;  but  he  did  not  know  why  he  knew. 
Nor  would  any  one  have  known.  But  the  seed  of  all  this  had 
been  sown  when  alone  and  camped  beneath  the  stars,  the  un- 
welcome conviction  had  then  come  that  he  was  little  better 
than  Schmucke.  And  that  seed  had  been  forced  to  flower  to- 
night in  the  orchid  hothouse  of  the  emotions.  Thus  were  the 
pseudo-art  of  an  otherwise  useless  charlatan  and  his  own 
existence  justified.  Petty's  too.  Eeptile  ?  Not  at  all.  Unre- 
fined phosphorus  that  was  being  shaped  into  a  pencil  with 
which  to  scrawl  Mene,  tekie  upharsin — again ! 

IV.   THE  SHOTS  IN  THE  DARK 

In  the  chalet,  Beau  had  long  since  dropped  off  to  sleep, 
an  arm  thrown  over  his  eyes  to  hide  the  steady  glare  of  the 
little  lamp  on  the  floor.  They  hardly  needed  that  protec- 
tion now;  the  oil  was  low  and  much  of  the  opium,  spoiled  by 
Archie's  efforts  to  cook  it,  having  fallen  into  the  flame,  the 
wick  was  reduced  to  a  sullen  red  cinder,  which,  with  the  dying 


The  Night  of  the  Seventeenth     415 

fire,  gave  so  little  light  that  even  Archie's  excited  face,  bend- 
ing over  the  lamp,  was  in  shadow. 

Yet  he  persisted  in  his  attempt  to  cook. 

In  his  highly  excited  state,  he  must  do  something.  Even 
though  the  pupils  of  his  eyes  were  narrowed  to  needle-points 
by  over-indulgence  in  the  drug,  he  imagined  that  more  would 
bring  surcease.  So  he  continued,  swearing  extravagantly  as 
each  successive  effort  failed.  "Cooking"  had  looked  so  easy  in 
the  experienced  hands  of  Beau,  that  Archie  could  not  realize 
it  was  a  highly  complicated  process  having  to  do  with  stages 
of  heat  and  cold — a  process  that,  if  varied  by  a  tenth  of  a  de- 
gree, meant  failure. 

Three  hours  of  Arnold's  absence  had  passed.  Frequently 
Archie  took  out  his  watch  and  worried  it,  spinning  it  around 
on  its  chain,  aimlessly;  squirting  it  out  from  between  thumb 
and  forefinger  and  letting  it  fall,  dangling,  much  to  its  inner 
detriment.  He  would  lie  thus  engaged,  his  blue  eyes,  glassy 
from  the  drug,  fixed  steadily  on  something  until  they  saw 
nothing,  his  mind,  the  while,  equally  a  blank.  Then  some 
anarchistic  muscle  would  discover  that  the  brain  was  no 
longer  supreme  and  would  declare  its  independence,  causing 
an  involuntary  jerk  of  arm  or  leg,  and  Archie  would  come  out 
of  his  mental  coma  and,  while  the  brain  was  rallying  its 
forces,  seize  on  one  of  the  cooking-needles  and  dig  vigorously 
into  the  contents  of  the  white  China  "toey."  The  early  stages 
of  the  cooking,  the  transmutation  of  the  brown  mass  into 
golden  flakes  and  bubbles,  was  easily  enough  accomplished. 
But  when  he  would  have  kneaded  this  residue,  it  fired  up  and 
fell  into  the  flame,  or  else  flaked  off  and  fell  on  the  tray. 
Furiously  he  would  jab  at  it  until  he  had  bent  all  the  yen- 
hoks.  Then  he  must  desist  and  make  them  red-hot  to 
straighten  them  again. 

Finally  a  destructive  idea  occurred  to  him:  he  would  not 
knead  the  stuff,  but  roll  it,  raw;  and  thus  he  managed  to  affix 
to  the  bowl  a  number  of  rudely  shaped  cones,  which,  being 
charred  and  nauseous,  made  him  cough  and  choke  to  swallow 


416  God's  Man 

their  smoke.  But,  though  it  made  him  feel  ill,  so  elated  was 
he  with  his  success  that  he  rolled  half  a  dozen  or  more,  until 
Nature  rebelled  and  gagged  him.  When  he  opened  his  eyes, 
after  fighting  off  this  state,  he  saw  the  wick  begin  to  waver, 
the  flame  sink  rapidly  until,  incontinently,  it  was  extinguished 
in  a  column  of  blue  spirals  very  unpleasant  to  smell.  The  oil 
was  out ! 

Voicing  shrilly  his  disappointment,  he  awakened  Beau,  who 
blinked  at  the  dying  blaze  of  the  hearth-fire  and  sniffed. 
"Lamp's  out/'  he  stated  peacefully. 

"And  just  when  I  was  beginning  to  cook  all  right,"  Archie 
complained  in  head  tones,  high  and  querulous.  "Just  when 
I  was  getting  to  know  how.  I'm  the  unluckiest  person  in  the 
whole  world.  There's  nobody  I  ever  heard  of  has  my  rotten 
luck." 

"You  had  enough  long  ago,  sucker,"  yawned  Beau,  prepar- 
ing to  sleep  again  and  purposely  omitting  the  information  as 
to  the  oil's  whereabouts.  He  was  a  little  afraid  of  Arnold's 
anger  should  Archie  be  entirely  incapacitated. 

"Wake  me  up  when  you  hear  him  coming.  Better  clear  that 
junk  away."  Taking  his  pillows,  he  rolled  nearer  the  fire,  for 
cover  drawing  down  a  near-by  overcoat.  Shortly  he  was  snor- 
ing, but  the  crackling  of  the  fire — Archie  had  thrown  on  more 
wood — as  the  wind  came  down  the  chimney,  reduced  his  nasal 
noises  to  a  sort  of  humming.  Archie  again  aroused  by  the  in- 
voluntary action  of  a  leg  muscle,  arose  and  began  to  put  the 
room  to  rights,  but  quite  mechanically.  When  he  had  carried 
the  lay-out  to  the  kitchen,  nausea  overwhelmed  him  and  he  sat 
down,  heavily  and  unhappily;  the  griping  pains  in  his  stom- 
ach, superinduced  by  the  raw  opium  he  had  forced  down, 
doubled  him  up  in  agony.  Several  times  he  essayed  to  inform 
Beau  that  he  was  poisoned.  Each  time  Beau  buried  his  face 
deeper  in  the  overcoat. 

It  was  then  that  Archie's  abnormaliy  sharpened  senses  be^ 
came  aware  of  a  second  noise :  a  distinctly  stealthy  footfall. 

The  wind  had  died  down  into  that  sort  of  ominous  caln 


The  Night  of  the  Seventeenth     417 

when  the  barometer  can  almost  be  heard  in  its  steady  fall. 
After  a  long  lapse  Archie  heard  the  noise  again.  And  now  his 
skin  was  stretched  as  tight  as  his  teeth  were  clenched ;  his  eye- 
balls bulged ;  for  not  only  did  he  hear,  but  his  mind's  eye  visu- 
alized. 

That  something  out  there;  that  something  taking  long 
steps,  and  raising  each  foot,  and  gauging  the  extreme  length 
of  each  step,  and  putting  down  the  foot  gingerly;  that  some- 
thing he  now  saw  as  a  satyr. 

If  the  black  dog  bestrode  McKiss'  back,  it  rode  rampant  on 
Archie's.  His  was  the  same  consciousness  of  evil  done.  His 
effort  to  allay  it  with  a  drug  had  but  increased  its  power,  that 
power  that  forced  him  to  see  a  ghoulish  specter  out  there, 
something  more  horrible  than  the  stained-glass  man-eater — 
the  memory  of  which  still  weighed  down  the  soul  of  the  ap- 
proaching McKiss. 

The  steps  were  nearer  now,  a  third,  a  fourth.  As  hapless 
folk  in  nightmares,  who  try  to  shriek  aloud  but  only  gurgle, 
who  try  to  flee  but  find  the  brain  can  no  longer  control  the 
body,  Archie  sat,  his  horror-stricken  gaze  fastened  on  the 
drawn  window-blinds.  Presently  these  would  be  pushed  aside, 
and  a  face  would  grin  at  him.  His  heart  told  him  that  when 
that  happened,  he  would  die. 

If  only  it  would  hasten,  would  have  done.  But  no !  those 
long  deliberate  steps  continued ;  between  each  a  stabbing  pain 
of  memory — of  what  might  have  been.  For  Archie  was  the  sen- 
timentalist led  astray.  His  respect,  nay  reverence,  for  good 
had  ever  remained  unchanged.  Sinners  of  his  sort,  slaves  of 
circumstance,  die  shrieking  for  forgiveness.  Such  as  he  seek 
refuge  in  strong  drink,  in  a  state  of  soddenness,  because  they 
are  afraid  to  think,  afraid  to  face  the  issue;  therefore,  of  all 
profligates,  go  most  swiftly  down  the  path  that  leadeth  to 
destruction. 

Thus,  then,  Archie  sat,  for  what  seemed  hours — a  few  sec- 
onds in  fact — until  the  great  back-log  fell  with  its  shower  of 
sparks.  The  sound  awoke  Beau,  also,  and  even  reached  the 


418  God's  Man 

cautiously  approaching  Petty  Schmucke;  the  satyr  of  the 
stealthy  footsteps — whose  retreating  patter  was,  in  turn,  car- 
ried to  the  startled  Beau. 

"By  God !  you're  right.  There  is  somebody  out  there ;  some- 
body spyin*  on  us.  Come  on,  quick." 

The  shock  of  a  tension  too  suddenly  released  was  such  that 
it  snapped  the  thin  bowstring  of  Archie's  sanity.  Blood 
streamed  from  his  lips;  he  was  wild  with  pain.  His  peasant 
body,  ceasing  to  have  the  guidance  of  his  patroon's  brain,  was, 
for  a  brief  space,  swayed  only  by  fierce  sensations. 

Beau,  taking  the  key  from  his  pocket,  ran  to  the  door  and 
flung  it  wide.  "Hands  up  there,  whoever  you  are,"  he  yelled. 
"We've  got  a  gun.  We'll  shoot."  At  the  very  words  he  felt 
behind  him  something  like  the  rushing  of  wind,  and  saw  an 
automatic  whirled  high  in  air. 

Of  such  swift  moments,  one  remembers  later  what,  at  the 
time,  one  merely  apprehends.  To  Beau,  Archie  seemed  like 
some  giant;  his  body  bulked  so  big  that  there  was  room  for 
only  one  within  the  doorway. 

Beau  stepped  down;  so,  at  least,  his  conceit  said.  Eeally 
he  sprawled.  Thus  the  first  shots  seemed  only  the  echoes  of 
what  was,  to  him,  the  most  important  happening  of  the 
moment. 

He  sat  up  dazed,  and  turned  to  Archie,  framed  by  the  fire- 
lit  doorway.  To  some,  he  might  have  seemed  to  sway  like  a 
drunken  man,  but  not  to  Beau,  who  was  a  child  of  the  Bowery 
where  physique  is  not  and  gun-play  is.  He  knew  that  Archie 
was  pivoting  on  his  heel,  head  and  hand  thrown  high,  his  arm 
a  compass  leg,  its  point  the  pistol. 

As  this  described  a  deadly  semicircle,  pink  flowers  of  flame 
were  born.  .  . 

Cautiously  Beau  crawled  across  the  porch.  He  knew  it 
meant  death  for  somebody.  His  blood  was  water.  And  so 
.  .  .  Beau  reached  Archie  and  gripped  him.  But  the  shots 
had  come  more  swiftly  than  he — and,  now,  the  automatic 
snapped  futilely.  That  Beau  was  unaware  of  this  was  evident 


The  Night  of  the  Seventeenth     419 

from  his  clenched  teeth,  clenched  as  tight  as  were  his  arms 
about  Archie's  ankles. 

In  a  last  berserk  paroxysm,  Archie  beat  down  at  the  other 
boy's  head.  But  the  new-born  Beau  was  too  precious  to  die  in 
infancy,  and  Archie  stumbled,  the  weapon  flying  far,  falling 
— somewhere.  Archie  swinging  back  pendulum-like  fell  too, 
but  there  was  a  long  wicker  chair  at  his  back  to  receive  him. 

Here  he  sat,  half -sprawled,  his  eyes  unseeing,  and  as  queru- 
lous as  some  tormented  child's.  Collapse,  at  last,  utter,  abso- 
lute. The  eyes  closed;  interlocked,  rather.  His  mouth  fell 
wide.  How  weak  it  was,  that  mouth ! 

"He's  a  baby.  A  poor  little  baby,"  sobbed  the  new-born 
Beau,  forgetting  to  pity  himself  in  the  presence  of  one  so 
transcendently  in  need  of  protection. 

A  great  sigh  shook  Archie,  a  long-drawn  shudder  followed. 
Then,  sleep ;  if  sleep  can  be  so  ill  a  thing. 

Then  silence  once  more,  out  of  which  came  toll  of  bell  and 
sob  of  fog-horn. 

Footsteps  again.  Not  stealthy  now.  Nor  frightened.  Nor 
fleeing. 

Beau  stood  beside  the  stricken  Archie,  dazed.  A  streamer 
of  light  fell  athwart  the  fog-wreathed  trunks  of  the  trees  out- 
side. Traveling  slowly  along  the  September  sward,  it  passed 
the  door,  irradiating  porch  and  fretted  woodwork  railing, 
pausing  at  its  dwarfed  stoop. 

Then  the  sound  of  other  feet — irresolute — unwilling — fee- 
bly afraid.  Whispering  followed,  and  the  lighting  up  of  the 
window  blind.  Then  on  the  flickering  patch  of  firelight  on 
the  floor,  ...  a  shadow  as  of  a  giant  forefinger — too 
thick  to  be  a  man's  forefinger,  at  all.  .  .  .  Beau  recog- 
nized it  for  what  it  was.  (Anybody  would,  nowadays;  adver- 
tisements of  just  such  a  finger  in  just  such  an  attitude  being 
numerous.)  As  it  appeared,  it,  disappeared,  the  firelit  floor, 
too;  for  the  spotlight  had  been  centered  on  the  standing 
Beau,  the  sprawling  Archie. 

Beau  had  thrown  up  both  hands  immediately  on  the 


420  God's  Man 

of  the  shadow.  But  it  needed  more  than  shadows  and  spot- 
lights to  disturb  Archie;  his  arms  hung  limply,  finger-tips 
touching  the  floor. 

"He's  all  in,  can't  you  see?"  squeaked  Beau.  His  words 
seemed  to  convince,  for  the  spotlight  faded  out,  and  in  swept 
a  pair  of  shadows  so  big  as  to  blot  out  the  firelit  patch  again ; 
their  human  prototypes  following  as  swiftly.  .  .  .  one  of 
them  tigerishly,  too — finger  trembling  on  the  trigger  of  a 
great  ugly  navy  revolver. 

Was  that  a  human  face?  The  blood-lusting  lion  was  as  a 
king  to  a  slave,  compared  to  Burly  Jones,  baring  dog-teeth, 
grinding  molars. 

"Go  to  hell,  Burly,"  shrieked  Beau ;  one  outflung  arm  pro- 
tected the  helpless  Archie,  the  other  gripped  Archie's  chair, 
the  knuckles  straining  out  every  drop  of  blood,  every  atom  of 
warmth. 

"Come  on,"  said  Jones  savagely.  "Get  out  of  this,  you 
damned !" 

McKiss  intervened.  His  face  was  drawn  with  pain,  his 
eyes  gloomy,  his  left  arm  helpless.  Clotted  blood  streaked  his 
wrist;  it  was  black  and  coagulated  where  his  sleeve  was 
burned. 

"I'm  sorry  you're  mixed  up  in  this,  young  fellow,"  he  man- 
aged to  say  to  Beau.  Jones  meanwhile  had  handcuffed  Beau ; 
to  whom  the  sight  and  sound  of  snapping  handcuffs  were  bit- 
ter reminders  that,  as  usual,  appearances  were  against  him. 

"Hey,"  he  blustered,  albeit  feebly.  "WhatVmatter  with 
you  fellows  ?  Crazy,  ain't  you  ?" 

Jones  paid  him  no  attention.  "Come  to  earth,  Mac,"  he 
screamed,  adding  obliquities. 

Archie's  wrists  were  braceleted.  "Quit  stalling,  will  you? 
Stand  up,  can't  you  ?" 

"Give  him  your  shoulder,  Markowitz,"  suggested  McKiss. 

"March,  now,"  commanded  Jones ;  and  with  his  automatic's 
muzzle  in  the  small  of  Archie's  back,  he  marched  them  from 
^the  house. 


The  Night  of  the  Seventeenth     421 

"I'm  sorry  about  that  arm  of  yours,  Mac,"  he  remembered 
to  say — ungraciously  enough.  "But  you'll  have  to  lead  the 
way.  /  can't  do  it  all.  .  .  .  Would  you  ? — is  that  so  ?" 

He  brought  his  heavy  weapon  down  between  Archie's  shoul- 
der-blades. Archie's  steel-encircled  wrists  had  shot  up  above 
his  head,  but  at  the  deadening  blow,  they  dangled  helpless  as 
before.  .  .  . 

"Get  on,"  Jones  warned  ferociously.  "Make  another  move 
and  I'll  brain  you."  .  .  . 

Beau  had  tried  to  ask  a  question,  and  Jones  had  pushed  him 
back  with  a  flattened  palm.  "Get  on!  I  tell  you,"  he 
shouted.  .  .  . 

His  black  company  moved  out  into  the  all-embracing  fog. 
A  pale  shaft  of  light  marking  their  progress — a  black  com- 
pany indeed:  one  bandaging  his  arm  with  his  handkerchief, 
knotting  his  necktie  over  it,  with  his  teeth ;  for  he  must  hold 
the  torch  with  his  uninjured  arm ;  the  other  held  two  hand- 
cuffed prisoners ;  and  blacker  than  the  Black  Man  himself,  gun 
for  goad,  herding  them  like  sheep  for  the  slaughter. 

In  the  darkness  they  passed  two  others  whose  faces  were 
buried  deep  in  the  sweet  September  wild-flowers.  .  .  . 
Petty  Schmucke  had  learned  to  lie  log-like  in  the  best  of 
schools. 

The  other  man — not  even  a  log  could  lie  quieter.  And  when 
the  "flash"  fell  on  the  hand  that  clutched  his  throat,  four  wavy 
parallel  lines  of  red  showed  between  tight-clenched  fingers. 

Then  the  light  went  out  and  left  the  dead  man  lying  there. 

V.  HAETOGENSIS  HALL  AGAIN 

Soon  after  Waldemar  had  left  him,  the  Squire  had  fallen 
asleep  before  the  fire;  but,  scowling  as  he  slept,  had  caused 
Butler  to  fear  his  wrath  should  he  be  awakened,  so  noise- 
lessly feeding  the  fire  with  a  few  logs,  the  servant  had  betaken 
himself  to  bed.  He  would  not  have  feared  a  little  later,  for 
the  scowl  was  of  short  duration;  representing  a  minor  inci- 


422  God's  Man 

dent  in  an  otherwise  pleasant  dream ;  one  of  convicting  an  in- 
solent peasant  to  long  imprisonment,  he  having  abated  the 
deference  due  one  of  high  degree. 

All  save  the  four  candles  in  the  candelabrum  nearest  the 
Squire  had  been  extinguished ;  and  by  now  these  were  gutter- 
ing out  into  blue  flame.  He  roused  himself,  surprised:  he 
must  have  been  asleep  for  hours.  Then  the  booming  of  the 
door-knocker  shook  the  house  with  echoes  and  reverberations, 
and,  for  once,  the  Squire  regretted  that  he  had  not  the  usual 
door-bell  in  its  stead.  That,  ringing  in  the  pantry,  would 
have  permitted  him  his  sleep  undisturbed.  But  as  the  serv- 
ants' quarters  were  over  the  garage,  he  must  himself  answer 
the  door  or  pretermit  that  awful  noise.  He  was  alone  in  the 
big  house,  Archie  being  in  New  York,  Archie's  brothers  at 
boarding-school. 

Once  more  some  one  banged  the  heavy  bronze  lion  against 
its  metal  frame.  Again  the  echoes  ran  riot.  The  Squire 
arose,  somewhat  laboriously;  went  grumbling  to  the  door. 
After  all,  it  must  be  a  matter  of  some  grave  import  if  people 
made  such  clack  and  clatter  about  it  at  such  an  hour.  He 
stumbled  through  the  darkness  and  opened  the  door. 

"Well?"  he  growled,  pushing  at  the  black  button  of  the 
porchway's  electric  switch.  The  great  Flemish  lantern  was 
immediately  irradiated,  the  rays  from  the  giant  bulb  within  it 
beating  down  upon  the  group  outside.  He  saw  the  flash  of 
nickel-plated  handcuffs,  the  drawn  revolver,  the  bloody  sleeve. 
One  of  the  prisoners  had  hidden  his  face  in  the  hollow  of  his 
arm. 

"What's  this  ?"  the  Squire  tried  to  growl.  McKiss,  his  face 
twitching  with  pain,  pushed  past  him.  "Where's  your  tele- 
phone ?"  he  groaned.  "Quick ! — if  I  don't  get  a  doctor,  I'l/go 
mad !"  The  instrument  was  shining  in  the  reflected  light, 
standing  in  an  alcove  by  the  footman's  seat.  Catching  at  it, 
McKiss  pushed  down  the  hook,  then  saw  the  handle  of  the  bell 
and  cranked  it.  "Hello !  Give  me  the  nearest  doctor,  please. 
Be  quick  about  it,  too.  It's  serious." 


The  Night  of  the  Seventeenth     423 

"It's  pretty  important,  Squire,"  said  Burly  Jones.  "We 
heard  Mr.  Waldemar  say  you  were  a  J.  P.,  and  we  didn't  know 
where  else  to  go."  Throwing  back  a  coat-lapel,  he  jerked  his 
waistcoat  backward  from  an  arrnhole,  showing  a  badge  pinned 
to  his  braces.  "Get  on,  you!"  he  said,  roughly  pushing  the 
two  prisoners  forward,  one  of  whom,  the  man  with  his  face 
hidden,  moaned  as  he  stumbled  over  the  threshold.  Within, 
this  man  fell  prone  upon  the  cushioned  window  seat,  face  still 
hidden. 

"Come  right  away,  Doctor — a  shattered  elbow,  I'm  afraid. 
Terrible  agony.  Happened  half-an-hour  ago.  Pistol-shot — 
pistol-shot.  Yes !  Hurry,  please  hurry.  The  Squire's  house., 
Squire  Hartogensis's," — McKiss  hung  up.  "You  haven't  got 
some  whisky,  have  you,  Squire.  A  slug  of  that  might  hold 
me  till  the  doctor  comes." 

Squire  Hartogensis,  dazed  by  his  sudden  wakening  and  the 
strange  experience  of  the  moment,  pointed  dumbly  toward  the 
open  door  beyond  which  candles  sputtered.  McKiss,  holding 
his  arm  stiffly,  lit  another  file  of  them,  and  looked  about  him 
fiercely.  In  the  silence,  the  moaning  of  him  upon  the  couch 
was  plainly  heard.  "Shut  up,  will  you!"  threatened  Jonas. 
"A  pair  of  gunmen,  Squire.  Yes,  sir;  a  pair  of  thieving 
killers." 

McKiss  had  found  the  decanter,  filled  a  goblet  almost  to  the 
brim,  gulped  it  clean  again,  staggered  back  and  sat  down, 
passing  a  hand  across  his  eyes.  "You'll  have  to  send  for 
somebody,  Squire,"  said  Jones.  "Can't  you  get  the  sheriff  on 
the  phone  ?  Or  had  I  better  call  up  the  Congressman's  house 
and  have  his  servants  bring  him  home.  May  I  have  a  drink  of 
that  stuff,  too?  Thanks!" 

"Bring  who  home?"  stammered  the  Squire.  He  had  not 
had  time  to  recover  the  dignity  dear  to  him :  the  shock  of  this 
armed  invasion  had  followed  too  suddenly  upon  his  rude 
awakening.  Jones  let  his  automatic  clank  down  upon  the  long 
carved  center-table  as  he  poured. 

"Mr.  Waldemar,"  he  replied,  drank  and  pointed.    "These 


424  God's  Man 

murderers  shot  him  haff  an  hour  ago."  A  louder  moan  broke 
from  the  man  whose  face  was  hidden.  "Yes,  he's  dead  all 
right,  Squire/'  Jones  continued.  "His  body's  lying  a  couple 
of  miles  from  here.  We  couldn't  bring  him :  had  our  hands 
full  getting  these  killers  here.  They  shot  my  friend,  too. 
Notice  his  arm." 

The  Squire  sat  stark  and  silent.  Waldemar  dead !  It  was 
some  time  before  the  full  extent  of  this  calamity  became  clear 
to  him.  It  was  too  incredible  for  belief.  All  they  had  planned 
to-night  done  with  forever?  No  more  easy  profits?  No,  it 
was  impossible.  Only  an  hour  ago  talking  here  and  now  dead. 
"Yes,  it's  impossible,"  he  muttered  aloud.  "Dead?  Im- 
possible !" 

"If  you  think  so,  you  had  better  send  somebody  up  there  to 
that  place  they  call  Bluff  Eoad,"  Jones  answered,  wag- 
ging his  head  and  shaking  his  finger.  "He  and  my  friend  and 
I  went  for  a  stroll  to  talk  over  some  business  and — "  He 
paused,  alarmed  by  the  contempt  openly  shown  on  the  tor- 
ture-racked face  of  his  companion.  "Anyway,  these  fellows 
shot  him,"  Jones  reiterated  doggedly,  frowning  McKiss  down. 
"And  we  haven't  got  anything  to  do  with  crimes  committed  in 
this  country — we're  New  York  Central-Office  men.  But  we 
weren't  going  to  let  these  guys  make  any  getaway  while  we 
were  around  and  maybe  have  the  killing  charged  to  us  by  these 
jays  around  here.  So  we  brought  'em  along  to  3rou.  We'll 
stick  till  your  Sheriff  conies  and  locks  'em  up,  though.  And 
we'll  come  back  for  the  Coroner ;  or  stay  overnight,  just  as  you 
say.  But  if  s  all  up  to  you,  Squire, — the  rest  of  it." 

"I  don't  quite  understand,"  said  Hartogensis,  beginning  to 
collect  the  scattered  remnants  of  his  self-possession.  "Not 
quite,"  he  added,  resuming  something  of  his  dignity,  his  tone 
meant  as  an  encouragement  to  Jones  to  express  himself  more 
clearly ;  to  endeavor  to  ascend  somewhere  near  to  that  Parnas- 
sian altitude  of  clarity  where  he,  the  Squire,  dwelt  habitually, 
and  from  which  it  was  difficult  for  him  to  descend. 

"You  understand  the  Congressman  is  dead,  don't  you?" 


The  Night  of  the  Seventeenth     425 

McKiss  asked  sharply,  his  eyes  luminous  with  pain.  Though 
the  drink  had  thickened  his  speech,  his  agony  was  too  acute 
for  any  amount  of  alcohol  to  affect  his  brain. 

"Now,  Mac,"  protested  Jones,  in  great  uneasiness.  "Keep 
out  o'  this,  now.  Will  you  ?  You  ain't  fit  to  talk  nur  to  do 
nothin'  with  that  arm  of  yourn."  Jones  was  plainly  taken 
aback  by  his  partner's  attitude.  As  he  turned  away  his  face 
darkened  with  a  look  of  positive  dislike. 

''Well,  Squire,"  he  said  harshly.  "Why  don't  you  phone 
for  the  Sheriff,  or  somebody.  Or  are  you  gunna  handle  these 
guys  single-handed  ?  One  of  'em's  a  desperit  bad  boy,  I  tell 
you.  Guess  it  was  him  that  croaked  the  Congressman,  though 
you  can't  git  a  line  on  neither  of  'em.  Won't  talk.  But  that 
other  one's  too  much  of  a  big  boob  to  shoot  anybody/'  He  in- 
dicated him  of  the  hidden  face,  and  scowled  at  the  other,  who, 
upright  and  impudent,  sat  in  a  straight-backed  chair. 

"I'd  like  to  have  a  cigarette,  sucker,"  said  this  one  calmly. 

Jones  eyed  him  in  baffled  despair.  "If  I  had  you  at  Head- 
quarters, Mr.  B.  Markowitz,  I'd  soon  take  that  freshness  outa 
you.  .  .  .  Look  here,  Squire,  ain't  you  gunna  do  anything  ?" 

"Mr.  Waldemar  is  shot,  you  say? — shot  by  these  young 
hoodlums?  And  probably  dead?"  questioned  the  Squire  in 
those  judicial  tones  he  most  admired,  the  tones  of  one  who 
weighs  words,  whose  speech  is  slow  and  distinct  so  that  not  a 
precious  syllable  shall  be  lost  to  the  court-stenographer  and 
to  an  admiring  posterity.  "Probably  dead."  He  nodded  his 
head  sagely. 

"No  probably  about  it,"  McKiss  broke  in  again.  "I  felt 
his  heart  on  the  way  back  here.  He's  dead,  dead,  dead."  His 
voice  rose  with  each  syllable.  "So  what  are  you  going  to  do? 
— what  are  you  going  to  do?  Are  you  going  to  let  him  lie 
out  there  ?  Let  him  lie  out  there  ?  Or  are  you  going  to  send 
somebody  to  get  his  body  ?  Going  to  send  somebody  to — " 

"Oh,  Ood, — don't !"  The  words  followed  a  muffled  scream 
from  the  man,  face  downward.  The  Squire  was  startled,  he 
did  not  know  just  why.  Really  it  was  because  of  his  famil- 


426  God's  Man 

iarity  with  the  voice;  but  (such  creatures  of  habit  are  we)  to 
connect  the  sound  of  his  son's  voice  with  that  of  a  manacled 
murderer  was  quite  out  of  the  question;  besides  Archie  was 
in  New  York.  Therefore,  vexed  at  his  inability  to  identify  the 
curious  sensation,  he  vented  his  irritation  on  the  original 
cause  thereof. 

"How  dare  you  be  insolent,  sir  ?"  he  demanded,  swelling  up, 
and  fixing  McKiss  with  his  little  puffy  eyes.  "In  my  grand- 
father's day,  young  man — "  He  got  no  further.  An  hys- 
terical laugh,  muffled  like  the  scream,  came  from  the  man  on 
the  padded  window-seat.  A  laugh? — it  was  a  harsh  shrill 
cackle  containing  no  more  mirth  than  the  gibbering  of  a 
maniac.  Again  that  uncomfortable  sensation.  Again,  failing 
to  identify  it,  anger.  "By  God,  what  does  this  mean?"  the 
Squire  said  loudly  and  smote  the  oak  center-table  as  though 
his  fist  were  his  gavel. 

Matters  had  gone  beyond  his  modicum  of  brain.  There  was 
something  sinister  about  the  whole  of  the  present  business. 
And  he  was  here  alone.  Swayed  by  the  psychic  currents  that 
swept  in  circles  around  the  room — the  superstitious  fear  of 
McKiss,  the  material  fear  of  Jones  lest  his  companion  tell  too 
much,  the  tragic  fear  of  Archie — the  Squire  had  a  subcon- 
scious foreboding  of  disaster.  This,  translated  into  the  con- 
sciousness of  an  unimaginative  man,  became  the  fear  of  bodily 
harm.  The  insane  asylum  at  King's  Park  was  not  far  dis- 
tant. The  Squire  controlled  a  shudder  as  he  remembered  one 
escaped  and  murderous  lunatic  who  had  been  caught,  years 
ago,  hiding  in  his  shrubbery.  "What  had  happened  once. 
.  .  .  And  lunatics  had  delusions  that  they  were  kings  and 
presidents  and  conquerors — why  not  detectives  ? 

He  breathed  a  prayer  of  devout  gratitude  as  he  heard  the 
wheels  of  some  light  vehicle  grinding  down  the  pebbled  path- 
way to  the  porte-cochere.  So  great  was  his  relief  he  forgot  his 
dignity,  and  went  to  the  doorway  to  greet  the  welcome  stran- 
ger. It  was  the  doctor,  a  tall  thin,  gray-haired  fellow  with 


The  Night  of  the  Seventeenth     427 

bright  bird-like  eyes  and  a  habit  of  whistling  under  his 
breath;  from  which  he  paused  now  only  long  enough  to 
return  the  greeting;  then  went  on  attending  to  his  horse — 
hitching  him,  covering  his  steaming  sides  with  a  woolen 
blanket,  accommodating  him  with  a  nose-bag  full  of  oats. 
Then,  patting  the  animal's  neck,  the  gangling  doctor  came  up 
the  wide  stone  steps  two  at  a  time,  his  lips  pursed  in  his  eter- 
nal silent  whistle. 

"Where's  my  man !  Well,  well !  Arm,  eh  ?  Horrible  pain, 
you  said.  Elbow  smashed !  Tut,  tut !  Elbows  don't  smash  so 
easily.  Shot?  Oh,  well,  a  shot!" 

He  looked  around,  eying  the  scene  curiously ;  then  decided 
it  was  none  of  his  business.  Whipping  out  a  case  of  glittering 
scalpels,  he  selected  one  and  slit  the  bloodied  sleeve  with  the 
precise  accuracy  of  an  expert,  yet  so  swiftly  that  it  seemed  he 
had  hardly  begun  before  he  was  done.  McKiss  wondered  why 
such  an  accomplished  surgeon  should  live  in  a  village :  he  was 
yet  to  realize  that  some  men  lived  for  other  things  than  money ; 
this  was  the  doctor'fe  birthplace  and  he  found  it  too  comfort- 
able to  leave — that  was  all. 

"Heart  strong  ?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"As  an  ox,"  McKiss  returned  between  set  teeth. 

The  doctor  pursed  his  lips  again  and  exhaled  a  whistled 
whisper  that  even  in  his  agony  the  detective  remembered  for 
a  ballad  of  his  youth,  Sweet  Marie.  But,  somehow,  far 
from  being  irritating,  the  sound  of  it  was  soothing, 
its  double-quick  tempo  an  indication  of  the  celerity  with 
which  relief  approached.  Into  a  tiny  measuring-glass,  the 
doctor  poured  part  of  a  spoonful  of  boiled  water,  dropped 
into  it  two  one-quarter-grain  tablets  of  morphia  and  a 
hundredth  of  a  grain  of  atropine.  Then,  in  doubt,  he  felt 
his  patient's  pulse ;  doubly  assuring  himself  by  kneeling,  put- 
ting aside  McKiss's  shirt  and  undervest,  and  listening  to  his 
heart,  which  encouraged  him  to  add  another  quarter  grain 
and  an  additional  hundredth.  This  mixture,  in  a  shining 


428  God's  Man 

syringe,  lie  shot  beneath  the  skin  of  the  uninjured  arm,  having 
first  had  McKiss  stretch  out  at  length  upon  the  other  window- 
seat,  some  pillows  under  his  head. 

"Kelax.  Keep  your  eyes  closed.  I'll  do  the  rest.  You  lie 
still.  And  don't  ask  questions."  He  had  opened  his  black 
bag  and  was  beginning  to  lay  out  other  shining  instruments, 
along  with  bottles,  medicated  cotton,  rolls  of  bandages  and 
adhesive  plaster.  As  he  worked  at  it,  whistling  noiselessly  the 
while,  the  Squire  had  crossed  to  the  telephone  and  had  bidden 
the  Deputy-Sheriff,  Hugh  Legare,  hasten  to  him;  then  had 
awakened  the  sleepy  Pucker  over  at  "Waldemar  House,  repeat- 
ing mechanically  the  tragic  information.  At  his  every  word, 
Archie  in  his  dark  corner  shivered  and  shook  convulsively; 
but  the  doctor's  shocked  surprise  made  itself  evident  only  in 
the  diminished  tempo  of  his  suppressed  whistling — until  he 
had  it  down  to  the  muffled  drums  of  Chopin's  Dead  March. 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence.  McKiss,  grateful  for  the 
soft  repose  that  had  begun  to  permeate  his  being, — the  obdu- 
rate brain-cells  being  conquered  for  the  moment  and  bidding 
the  body  "Peace," — gave  himself  up  to  luxuriating  in  his 
momentary  release  from  torture.  One  could  hear  only  the 
doctor's  soft  whistling  and  Archie's  choked  breathing.  Beau 
sat  sullen,  craving  a  cigarette.  In  the  realization  that 
he  must  do  without  something  he  so  much  desired,  his 
first  horror  of  the  imprisonment  he  faced  smote  him. 
His  fear  that  Archie  would  not  confess  faded  into  a  fear 
that  he  would.  What  was  death,  death  so  sudden  as  to 
be  painless,  compared  with  wanting  cigarettes  for  a  lifetime  ? 
Worse  than  that,  for  terror  had  beset  him  at  the  sight  of  the 
medico's  syringe:  suppose  he,  Beaulieu  Markowitz,  should 
have  formed  a  habit  for  the  opium?  If  so,  in  a  few  hours 
(thirty,  he  had  heard),  a  craving  would  begin  compared  to 
which  the  present  craving  for  cigarettes  was  as  slight  as  the 
difference  between  an  epicure's  desire  for  caviar  and  a  starv- 
ing man's  stern  need  for  anything  that  could  be  eaten.  But 
Beau's  contempt  for  the  police,  plus  the  knowledge  that  Jones 


The  Night  of  the  Seventeenth     429 

knew  almost  all  of  his  associates  and  would  glory  in  telling 
of  it,  should  he  weaken — combined  to  keep  up  his  apparent 
stoicism.  Actually,  however,  the  fear  that  now  beset  him 
made  him  weak  as  water. 

The  doctor's  whistling  came  to  a  sudden  stop,  and,  as 
he  did  not  utilize  his  lapse  for  conversation,  this  was  indeed 
a  phenomenon.  The  reason  might  have  been  read  in  the 
rounding  of  his  eyes  as  he  listened  while  Jones  gave  to  the 
Squire,  to  transmit  to  Pucker  at  the  other  end  of  the  tele- 
phone wire,  a  detailed  description  of  where  the  fallen  Walde- 
mar  would  be  found.  Now,  as  the  Squire  hung  up,  the  doc- 
tor wondered  aloud :  it  seemed  a  necessity  to  convince  himself. 

"The  Pinckney  property  ?  Why,  young  L'Hommedieu's  liv- 
ing there !  Arnold  L'Hommedieu !  Arnold."  And  then  he 
turned,  fiercely,  and  shook  Beau's  shoulder.  "What  have  you 
done  with  him,  you  little  blackguard?  Have  you  murdered 
him,  too?  Have  you  murdered  Arnold  L'Hommedieu?" 

"Never  heard  of  no  such  person,"  returned  Beau  resentfully, 
all  the  ethics  of  his  profession  in  mind;  for  Beau,  little  as 
he  suspected  it,  was  an  idealist  in  his  way — the  way  of  so 
many  professional  lawbreakers.  Let  the  ignorant  scoff,  the 
Robin  Hood  legend  lives,  in  all  ages,  in  the  persons  of  some  of 
its  imitators. 

"But  you  were  in  his  house!"  half -questioned,  half-stated 
the  alarmed  doctor,  who,  married  to  the  daughter  of  Doctor 
Will  L'Hommedieu,  had  known  Arnold  since  the  younger 
man's  childhood,  had  helped  train  his  budding  mind,  loved 
him,  as  one  alert  mind  in  the  midst  of  its  duller  brothers  loves 
another. 

"Never  heard  of  him,  I  tell  you,"  Beau  repeated  in  the 
same  sulky  manner.  "We  got  lost  in  that  damn  fog — 
and  the  door  was  unlocked.  Wasn't  anybody  there,  so  we  went 
in  to  warm  ourselves." 

"That's  a  lie,  and  you  know  it,"  said  McKiss,  opening  his 
eyes.  "Who's  this  you  say,  this  Arnold  L'Hommedieu,  Doc- 
tor ?  Hired  the  house,  did  he  ?  He's  a  party  to  all  this.  Not 


430  God's  Man 

the  murder,  I  don't  mean — the  rest  of  it.  The  smuggling — : 
But  McKiss  was  checked  in  further  revelations  by  the  leaping 
up  of  Jones ;  who,  standing  over  his  wounded  companion,  now 
regarded  him,  sternly,  threateningly,  even  going  as  far  as  to 
cough  loudly.  But  the  effort  of  speech  had  broken  the  spell  of 
the  morphine  and  had  brought  McKiss  back  to  the  realization 
of  other  things  besides  his  pain.  "I  wouldn't  say  anything, 
young  fellow,"  he  said,  disregarding  Jones,  addressing  Beau. 
"There's  been  enough  damage  done  already  by  me  meddling. 
But  it's  a  warning!  A  warning!  I  knew  it  was  comin':  I 
knew.  And  when  that  shot  struck  me  and  I  heard  the  Honni- 
ble  Johnnie  cryin'  out  that  he  was  hit,  it  was  jest  like  I  seen 
me  mother's  face  in  the  flashes  out  of  the  gun.  Yes,  and  then 
I  hear  her  say,  clost  to  me :  '  'Tis  the  last  chance  for  ye,  Mi- 
chael, oh,  my  Michael/  She  wouldn't  call  me  Eugene  like  me 
father,  but  always  by  the  name  that  was  to  guard  me,  come 
Communion.  And  it  was  like  she  told  me  to  lie  clost  to  the 
ground  and  I  wasn't  hit  no  more  at  all.  Bullets  kept  singing 
around  and  hitting  trees,  but  I  knew  she'd  interceded  for  me 
and  it  was  for  me  to  show  now  it  was  worthy  I  was.  Then  I 
swore  to  the  Blessed  Mother  that  I'd  never  bate  an  inch  of 
going  through  for  penance  and  to  show  me  thankfulness, 
besides." 

For  the  second  time  in  a  night,  his  emotion  had  overcome 
him  and  he  had  gone  back  again  to  childhood's  Galway  brogue. 
"I  ain't  goin'  to  spare  myself  none,  Markowitz,"  he  added,  re- 
suming his  Americanese.  "You  needn't  look  at  me  like  that. 
I  know  all  Pve  done,  better'n  you.  I  know  I've  been  a  rat,  a 
dirty  dog — anything  you  feel  like  calling  me.  And  if  you  go 
on  up  river,  I'll  be  right  there  by  your  side  a-makin'  big  ones 
inta  little  ones  just  like  you — "  He  paused,  exhausted.  He 
had  spoken  without  thought,  without  respect  to  his  recently 
acquired  grammar.  He  was  as  little  aware  of  his  solecisms  as 
he  had  been  of  his  reaction  to  the  Celtic  idioms  of  his  yester- 
years. His  eyes,  again  luminous  with  pain,  were  as  wild  as 


The  Night  of  the  Seventeenth     431 

they  were  bright ;  the  drug  had  only  diminished  the  size  of 
the  pupils  without  dulling  them. 

"And  so  I've  got  to  see  your  friends  don't  land  that  opium," 
he  said,  turning  from  the  sight  of  his  partner's  brutal  rage. 
"If  I  let  'em  land  it,  I  won't  be  keepin'  to  what  I  swore,  won't 
be  worthy  of  havin'  my  blessed  Mother  intercede  for  me. 
I'm  a  rat,  all  right,  and  I've  got  hell  shrieking  for  me  being  so 
long  coming  home.  But  I  ain't  a  goin'  to  be  a  rat  any  more, 
young  fellow,  not  any  more — " 

"Come,  my  man ;  you're  delirious,"  said  the  doctor  gently. 
"I'm  all  ready  for  you  now."  He  had  been  in  the  dining-room 
and  had  returned  with  a  silver  pitcher,  some  of  the  water 
from  which  he  put  to  boil  over  a  spirit  lamp  in  an  aluminum 
basin — both  collapsible,  both  from  one  of  his  cases.  He  had 
certain  theories  about  colytics  and  used  in  his  surgical  work 
nothing  he,  himself,  had  not  unwrapped  from  medicated  gauze 
a  moment  before. 

As  he  had  passed  into  the  darkened  dining-room  and  was 
about  to  strike  a  match  to  find  what  he  wanted — the  candles 
lit  by  McKiss  having  guttered  out — the  fire  also  fallen  low — 
the  long  mahogany  table  had  been  for  a  moment  illumined  as 
if  by  a  sudden  sunbeam ;  and,  looking  up,  he  saw  that  a  long 
shaft  of  light  had  fallen  through  the  open  oriel  window.  It 
faded  as  he  laid  hands  on  the  pitcher;  but  now,  as  his  water 
boiled,  the  light  was  explained  by  the  birr  of  an  approaching 
motor.  McKiss,  reduced  by  his  pain  to  mumbling,  opened  his 
eyes  at  the  sound.  "Tut,  tut,  now,"  said  the  doctor.  "Keep 
quiet.  Got  to  keep  quiet."  He  had  begun  to  spray  the 
wounded  arm  with  cocaine.  As  a  temporary  numbness  set  in, 
he  began  to  bathe  away  coagulated  blood,  cleansing  the  black- 
ened flesh,  but  pausing  every  minute  to  spray  again. 

The  search-lights  of  the  approaching  car  had  found  the 
windows  of  Hartogensis  Hall  again  and  now  the  motor 
chugged  and  hissed  outside.  Resting  as  it  did  on  an  upward 
slant  of  the  road,  its  lights  illumined  the  drawn  white  blinds 


432  God's  Man 

of  one  of  the  great  bay-windows — so  that  Archie,  his  face  still 
hidden,  lay  in  a  pool  of  lambent  light.  Following  this  illumi- 
nation came  a  sudden  thumping  of  the  bronze  lion,  and  when 
the  Squire  opened  the  door  which  continued  to  quiver 
from  the  knocker's  impact,  there  entered  a  very  Magog  of  a 
man,  one  Hugh  Legare,  Sheriff's  Deputy  for  Havre  de  Grace, 
descendant  of  another  Hugh,  a  zealous  Huguenot  and  faithful 
body  squire  (reputed  gigantic  also),  who  had  followed  the 
fortunes  of  the  founder  of  Havre  de  Grace,  the  Chevalier 
L'Hommedieu.  But,  gigantic  or  not,  he  could  have  been  no 
finer  figure  of  a  man  than  Sheriff  Hugh,  who,  single-handed, 
could  see  to  it  that  any  ordinary  half-dozen  roysterers  kept  the 
peace. 

"How  did  it  happen  ?"  burst  perplexedly  from  this  Colossus 
as  he  entered.  He  was  followed  by  the  two  Havre  de  Grace 
constables,  Tom  Bowne  and  Tom  Heaney,  both  strapping 
sizable  fellows,  handy  with  their  "fives";  though  neither 
seemed  of  more  than  ordinary  proportions  measured  along- 
side the  Colossus.  These  two  Toms  stood  guard,  one  on  each 
side  of  the  great  oaken  door;  while  Legare  (pronounced  Le- 
gree  in  Havre  de  Grace)  strode  toward  the  center-table,  and 
from  that  point  of  vantage,  scrutinized  the  strangers.  "I 
say :  how  did  it  happen,  Squire  ?"  he  asked  again. 

But  Benjamin  Hartogensis  was  too  occupied  in  experiencing 
the  relief  Legare's  appearance  induced  in  him;  so  that  Mc- 
Kiss,  for  all  the  added  pain  of  the  doctor's  efforts,  seized  the 
opportunity  to  snarl  out:  "Smuggling;  that's  how.  And 
there's  more  of  'em,  all  bringing  a  shipload  of  opium  ashore. 
They're  at  it  this  very  minute,  if  they  haven't  done  it  already. 
Send  your  men  quick,  Mr.  Sheriff.  The  doctor  here  knows 
where."  McKiss  had  spoken  every  word  through  clenched 
teeth;  now  he  relapsed,  gritting  them.  Any  outward  exhibi- 
tion of  his  agony  might  seem  unmanly  to  the  stoic  Beau — for, 
equally  with  thieves,  thief-takers  desire  their  enemies  shall 
believe  them  dauntless.  "They've  got  a  motor-car  and  they'll 


The  Night  of  the  Seventeenth     433 

have  the  first  load  half-way  up  the  Jericho  Turnpike  if  you 
don't  hurry,"  he  managed  to  add,  faintly,  then  closed  his  eyes. 

Burly  Jones  had  listened  holding  his  breath,  the  hatred  of 
a  chained  wild  beast  shining  in  his  pale-green  eyes ;  so  much 
of  it  in  fact  that,  when  McKiss  ceased  speaking  and  failed 
to  restrain  a  groan  as  the  doctor's  extractor  probe  brought  out 
the  bloody  bullet,  Jones  failed  to  restrain  a  malicious  grin — 
which  directed  the  Sheriff's  scrutiny  to  him.  The  doctor  has- 
tened to  prepare  another  injection  lest  his  patient  leap  up  un- 
able longer  to  withstand  the  torture. 

"Too  bad  they  held  me  up  on  that  chloroform,"  the  doctor 

muttered.     "Damn  this  rotten  Long  Island  railroad  service. 
» 

"What  kind  of  a  doctor  are  you,  anyway  ?"  sneered  Jones. 
"Nobody  but  a  fool  would  let  him  talk  and  excite  himself." 

"Shall  I  gag  him  ?'  returned  the  doctor,  with  some  acerbity ; 
he  did  not  like  Jones'  eyes,  anyway.  "Or  will  you  ?"  His  al- 
most noiseless  whistling,  resumed,  was  nearly  tuneless  now, 
his  entire  mentality  being  concentrated  on  the  hardy  sufferer. 

The  Colossus  eyed  the  sullen  Beau,  then  the  prostrate 
Archie,  limned  in  the  search-lights  of  the  motor-car  outside. 
A  frown  came  to  Legare's  huge  face,  growing  darkness  to 
his  eyes.  The  two  Toms,  never  before  called  on  to  serve  in 
any  exploit  more  hazardous  than  the  arrest  of  speeding  motor- 
ists or  brawling  revelers,  stood  stiffly  erect,  ready  to  resent 
any  offensive  comparisons  between  themselves  and  the  metro- 
politan constabulary,  hoping  their  frowns  and  compressed  lips 
gave  detectives  and  criminals  alike  to  understand  that  here 
were  two  stern  officers,  perilous  men. 

The  Colossus  continued  to  stare,  rubbing  his  palm  along  a 
corrugated  patch  in  his  oilskin  coat  (the  fog  had  turned  to 
rain  before  he  had  been  awakened),  which  disturbed  pocket 
surface  denoted  a  heavy  old-fashioned  Colt's  revolver  under- 
neath. "But  what  about  the  Honnible  Johnnie?"  he  asked 
slowly.  "Mr.  Waldemar,  I  mean,  Squire.  They  shot  him? 


434  God's  Man 

That  fellow?"  He  indicated  Beau.  "And  him?"  He  hesitated 
before  pointing  to  Jones,  wondering  that  he  wore  no  handcuffs. 

"Me?"  choked  Jones.  "Me!!  Holy  Jumping—  Me!!!" 
Strange  weird  oaths  rattled  in  his  throat,  but  for  the  moment, 
he  was  too  enraged  to  articulate  at  all.  "Why,  you  big  stupid 
jay!  You  poor  ruben!!  You — why,  damn  your — why — 
look  here !"  Kealizing  his  inability  to  do  the  situation  oral 
justice,  he  choked  again,  displayed  his  badge.  "There's  the 
other  fellow."  He  indicated  Archie. 

"Him!"  Legare  gasped  unbelievingly.  Xot  only  was  his 
sight  keener  than  the  Squire's,  but  that  worthy  had  not 
glanced  in  Archie's  direction  since  the  Sheriff's  search-lights 
had  illumined  the  window-blinds.  Had  he  done  so,  he  could 
not  have  failed  to  recognize  the  high  round  shoulders,  the 
tight  collar  forcing  up  two  fleshy  creases  amid  the  closely- 
clipped  hair — though  in  truth  the  collar  was  now  soiled  be- 
yond belief  for  the  immaculate  Aramis  of  the  Musketeers. 

But  the  Squire  was  now  too  busy  to  look ;  he  was  filling  out 
John  Doe  warrants  for  the  apprehension  of  "three  parties, 
unknown,"  together  with  orders  for  their  incarceration — 
pending  instructions  from  the  County  Court-House — to- 
gether with  that  of  the  two  prisoners  then  present.  Knowing 
little  of  law  and  less  of  its  procedure  in  criminal  cases,  he  was 
concerned  only  to  conceal  his  ignorance.  Then,  too,  he  wrote 
under  the  only  light  in  the  hall,  and  his  eyes,  short-sighted 
enough  without  his  glasses  (which  were  somewhere  in  his 
study),  were  further  dimmed  by  its  glare. 

"We  went  walking — with  the  Congressman,"  McKiss  had 
continued,  meanwhile.  "I  suppose  these  two  here  were  left 
behind  on  watch.  The  others  went  out  in  the  boat  to  land  the 
stuff.  .  .  .  All  of  a  sudden  (you  know  how  dark  it  is  to- 
night), I  see  a  door  flung  open  about  a  block  away  and  then 
this  shooting  began.  It  was  all  over  before  we  unloaded  our 
own  cannisters.  They  got  the  Congressman  with  the  first 
shot.  I  was  potted  next.  Then  the  shooting  stopped  just  as 
sudden  as  it  began,  and  my  pal  and  me  scouted  around  and 


The  Night  of  the  Seventeenth     435 

nailed  'em.  Neither  one  of  'em  had  a  cannon  on  him,  and 
they  won't  say  which  one  done  the  shootin'.  I  guess  both  of 
'em  did.  Well  it  just  means  life  for  both  'stid  of  the  chair 
for  one,  that's  all."  He  closed  his  eyes. 

"But — him!"  said  Legare.  "Him — what  was  he  doing 
there?"  He  pointed  to  Archie.  "There  must  be  some  mis- 
take." .  .  . 

"You  see  it,  too  ?"  the  doctor  asked  quietly,  but  not  turning 
or  ceasing  in  his  work.  "I  thought  I  was  right.  It's  terrible, 
Legree.  It's  terrible !" 

The  Squire  finished  filling  out  his  warrants.  "If  you  know 
either  of  these  men,  I'll  put  his  name  here  instead  of  'John 
Doe/  " 

"Put  down  <B.  Markowitz'  for  that  fellow  there,"  growled 
Jones.  "These  gentlemen  seem  to  know  the  other  one;  he's 
a  stranger  to  me." 

"Here,  I  can't  stand  this,"  said  the  Colossus,  as  the  doctor 
broke  into  a  fit  of  coughing.  "Take  those  fellows  out  of  here 
— quick,"  he  added  to  the  two  Toms ;  then,  under  pretense  of 
reading  the  warrants  under  the  single  hall  light,  he  planted 
his  huge  bulk  between  the  Squire  and  the  sight  of  the  door. 
"Get  a  move  on,  you  idiots,"  he  yelled.  "Go  on.  Get  'em 
out,  I  tell  you.  .  .  .  Now,  Squire.  About  this  smug- 
gling. .  .  ." 

Continuing  his  pretense  with  what  little  ingenuity  his  slow 
wits  could  muster,  the  Colossus  leaned  over,  still  standing, 
planting  both  elbows  on  the  table  and  compelling  the  Squire's 
gaze  by  sheer  concentration  and  strength  of  will.  "About 
this  smuggling,"  he  repeated  in  a  firm  clear  voice,  but  alas ! 
Hugh  Legare's  brain  lacked  the  bigness  of  his  heart.  Fur- 
ther duplicity  failed  him. 

The  Squire  eyed  him  importantly,  having  regained  his 
usual  portentous  dignity  by  the  written  exercise  of  his  official 
powers.  "About  that  name,  first,  Legree,"  he  said  patroniz- 
ingly, tapping  the  warrant  withheld.  "You  say  you  recog- 
nized the  other  murderer?"  He  held  his  pen  poised. 


436  God's  Man 

In  the  silence,  the  Colossus  stared  at  him  in  helpless  dis- 
may ;  listening  in  vain  for  the  opening  and  closing  of  the  door 
which  would  render  unnecessary  his  own  witnessing  of  a  do- 
mestic tragedy.  The  Squire  made  an  impatient  gesture.  "Well, 
Sheriff,  well,  well,"  he  demanded  fussily.  Came  only  the 
sound  of  the  sputtering  spirit-lamp  and  the  bubbling  song  of 
the  boiling  water  in  the  basin.  The  doctor's  noiseless  whis- 
tling might  have  been  heard  in  that  silence  had  his  lips  not 
been  unable  to  form  even  so  slight  a  sound.  Then  the  hard 
breathing  of  the  two  Toms  reached  the  ear  of  the  Colossus. 
His  heavy  fists  clenched  until  the  knuckles  seemed  about  to 
pop  forth  from  them  like  ripe  gooseberries  from  their  skins. 

"You  God-damned  f ools,"  he  yelled  suddenly ;  then  turned, 
but  still  his  bulk  was  between  the  Squire  and  the  door. 

"He's  fainted  dead  away,"  whined  Heaney,  such  Colossal 
rage  routing  all  remembrance  of  his  own  stern  perilous  na- 
ture. 

And  even  as  he  spoke,  at  the  touch  of  Heaney's  hand, 
Archie's  senseless  body  rolled  from  the  narrow  window-seat 
and  tumbled  heavily  to  the  floor.  The  Squire,  annoyed  at 
Legare's  apparent  disrespect,  pushed  him  aside,  with  what 
would  have  been  pettishness  in  a  younger  man.  "What's  this  ?" 
he  demanded,  additionally  annoyed  by  the  sudden  shock  the 
noise  of  Archie's  fall  had  given  him.  He  shook  off  Legare's 
hand  and  came  forward.  "What  does  all  this  mean,  I  say?" 

And  then  he  saw.  For  that  part  of  the  Persian  rug  where 
Archie  had  fallen  was  just  within  the  radius  of  the  Sheriff's 
search-lights.  And  in  that  patch  of  brightness,  his  face  up- 
turned, his  eyes  blue-lidded,  Squire  Hartogensis  saw  the  father 
of  that  grandson  before  whom  peasants  were  to  bend  the  knee 
and  stand,  with  heads  uncovered,  as  before  a  king. 

Had  the  Colossus  not  been  quick,  father  and  son  would  have 
lain  there  side  by  side. 


CHAPTER    TWO 

THE  HUE  AND  CRY 
I.  ARNOLD  RETURNS 

UT  at  sea,  it  was  as  dark  as  it 
was  silent.  Even  when  the  lit- 
tle motor-boat  throbbed  and 
thumped  its  way  from  Havre  de 
Grace  to  within  shouting  dis- 
tance of  the  Green  Sands  Light, 
the  fog  had  so  muffled  the  sound 
of  the  whirling  iron  wheel  that 
had  the  black  rocks  that  girdled 
the  lighthouse  been  inhabited  by 
the  penguins,  who  were  said  to 
have  been  seen  there  at  other 
times,  these  solemn  fowl  would 

scarcely  have  heard  the  boat's  approach.  Now,  after  what 
seemed  to  its  crew  to  be  interminable  repetitions  of  this  voy- 
age, the  boat  lay  anchored  as  near  to  the  place  agreed  upon  as 
Arnold's  rough  reckoning  allowed. 

The  tide  tugging  at  the  bell-shaped  anchor,  buried  deep  in 
the  sand  twenty  feet  below,  playing  fast  and  loose  with  the 
anchor-rope,  the  rudder  occasionally  slapping  against  the 
stern,  and  a  sort  of  soft  slushing  when  the  boat  swung  broad- 
side, then  back  again, — such  slight  sounds  as  these  seemed  a 
part  of  the  great  silence,  and  went  unheard  by  the  boat's  occu- 
pants; and,  anyhow,  Pink  and  Hugo  were  fast  asleep  on  the 


438  God's  Man 

sodden  canvas  spread  out  in  the  stern-sheets  while  Arnold, 
stretched  out  in  the  bow,  was  drowsing. 

So  silent  was  it  that  he  was  awakened  hy  sounds  that, 
though  soft  enough,  steadily  increased  on  all  sides,  until  from 
every  direction  came  what  seemed  the  patter  of  many  tiny 
feet,  thousands  of  them,  racing  faster  each  minute.  Or  per- 
haps it  was  their  cold  impact  on  his  face.  Or,  again,  the 
steady  dripping  from  the  peak  of  his  oilskin  cap.  When, 
shivering,  he  started  up,  it  had  been  raining  some  time  and 
had  ceased  to  sound  like  footsteps  from  Elf -Land.  This  beat- 
ing down  of  heavy  drops  was  more  as  if  some  giant  overhead 
were  throwing  handsful  of  pebbles  on  the  water. 

The  wind  had  risen,  too.  Some  other  giant  seemed  to  be 
standing,  waist-high  and  blowing  his  breath  against  the  long 
glassy  swells,  now  flaked  and  fleeced  with  foam.  "Hel-lo," 
said  Arnold  involuntarily  as  he  pressed  a  black  button  and 
the  "finder's"  long  lance-like  light  described  a  circle,  stabbing 
the  fog.  This  was  no  longer  a  difficult  achievement,  however : 
with  the  rising  of  the  wind,  the  spell  of  blackness  was  broken, 
and  the  "finder"  revealed  more  troubled  waters  than  thick 
vapors. 

Far  distant,  a  faint  glimmer  from  the  Green  Sands  light 
broke  through  the  gloom;  and,  when  Arnold  snapped  off  his 
own,  he  thought  he  could  distinguish,  dimly,  a  speck  of  radi- 
ance over  Middle  Ground  way.  Behind  him  Havre  de  Grace 
channel-tower  winked  a  misty  yellow  welcome ;  and,  as  Arnold 
reached  for  his  watch  and  held  the  dial  close  to  his  eyes,  he 
made  out  "two  o'clock"  by  a  pale  cold  light  from  overhead. 
Gusts  of  wind  had  begun  to  chase  the  clouds  over  a  faintly 
phosphorescent  surface  where  the  moon  should  have  been. 

The  anchor-rope  gave  a  sudden  tug,  as  a  roving  white-cap 
came  over  the  port  side.  A  gust  heeled  the  boat  over  and 
passed  on,  after  trying  to  take  Arnold's  oilskin  cap  with  it. 
But  it  was  fastened  under  his  chin  with  strings;  and  so  the 
wind  could  only  lift  it  high  enough  for  its  owner  to  feel  a  cold 
sticky  breath  against  his  bare  head. 


The  Hue  and  Cry  439 

It  was  sufficient  warning  even  for  one  not  weather-wise. 
Arnold  stirred  the  sleepers  with  his  boot-toe.  "Pink !  get  out 
of  the  way/'  he  said.  "Hugo— steer ! !"  They  scrambled  up, 
each  holding  to  a  side  of  the  boat ;  Hugo  catching  at  the  steer- 
ing spokes.  Arnold  threw  over  the  iron  wheel;  it  began  to 
revolve  as  a  spark  flashed  up  unseen ;  increasing  its  speed  until 
it  whirled ;  and  whirling,  the  propeller  thrashed  about  and  the 
oil  began  to  sing  in  the  cylinder. 

"Which  way?"  asked  Hugo. 

"Have  you  sighted  her  ?"  Pink,  giving  up  after  several  at- 
tempts to  strike  matches  in  that  wind,  shoved  the  face  of  his 
watch  under  the  "finder,"  the  button  to  which  he  pushed. 

"Don't  do  that,"  said  Arnold  sharply.  "Do  you  want  people 
to  know  we're  out  here  at  this  hour  ?  There's  a  storm  coming 
up — fast !  The  lighthouse  keepers  will  be  awake.  Sit  back 
by  the  rudder,  Hugo,  and  help  me  when  I  have  to  turn  the 
boat.  These  waves  are  getting  pretty  bad." 

"What  about  the  ship?"  asked  Hugo, — or,  rather,  shouted. 
The  wind's  whistling  had  waxed,  was  now  a-shrieking.  The 
oily  peaceful  swells  were  hills  and  valleys  of  black  water. 
Hugo  shouted  his  question  again. 

"Sit  down,  you  poor  nut,"  advised  Pink.  "Do  you  think 
he'd  be  lookin'  as  though  he  burned  out  'thout  any  insurance 
if  it  had  come?  Come  on  back  here  where  your  solid  ivory 
nut  is  no  knock  to  you,  and  help  hold  this  rudder  straight. 
It's  got  me  faded.  .  .  .  Wow ! — that  was  a  hummer !" 

The  boat  had  shot  up  to  a  great  height,  then,  some  cross- 
current intervening,  had  met  only  vacancy,  had  dropped  flat 
into  a  churning  valley  below,  quivering,  vibrating,  shipping 
gallons.  But  the  next  wave  swept  her  up  again,  this  time  to 
race  down  at  motor-car  speed.  Which  brought  her  to  Havre 
de  Grace  channel.  Here  the  current,  coursing  out  of  the  Har- 
bor, caught  her  and  would  have  spun  her  around ;  but  Hugo, 
in  compliance  with  Arnold's  shout,  bore  down  heavily  on  the 
rudder  and  held  her  nose  straight. 

Despite  his  assistance,  they  were  in  some  danger.     The 


440  God's  Man 

storm  was  breaking  fierce  and  fast  and  that  channel  was  no 
spot  to  choose  for  a  pleasure-cruise  even  on  calm  days.  Now 
every  eddy  was  awhirl  with  spume  and  spindrift,  a  hundred 
cross-currents  were  whipping  savagely  one  across  the  trail  of 
another,  and  the  outgoing  tide  meeting  them,  roared  up  white 
with  a  great  lashing  mane. 

A  moment  of  suspense ! —  The  boat  stood  stock-still,  her 
propeller  high  out  of  water.  Another  current  caught  her, 
whirled  her  up  then,  meeting  the  tide,  she  would  have  spun 
around  and  around  until  overwhelmed  had  not  Hugo  held  on 
grimly,  although  the  rudder  was  almost  torn  from  his  hands. 
But  Arnold,  seeing  his  chance  between  two  great  swells,  the 
boat  shot  out  of  the  channel,  raced  up  hill  and  down  dale 
again,  and  was  soon  swinging  around  a  bend  in  the  shore  that 
hid  the  channel  light.  And  there,  almost  abreast  them,  were 
three  lanterns,  ruby  red  and  emerald  green  with  bright  orange 
between;  the  three  hung  out  to  advise  the  Cormorant  of  the 
landing  place  should  other  arrangements  miscarry. 

Secure  from  the  spying  of  any  one  in  the  lighthouse,  Arnold 
released  the  "finder"  and  manipulated  it  until  the  light 
showed  him  their  rowboat,  tossing  up  and  down  at  her  moor- 
ings. "Ease  her  down,  Pink.  Get  ready  to  throw  off  the 
switch.  .  .  .  Now!" — and  a  bright  green  spark  glowed, 
the  iron  wheel  flopped,  and  two  pairs  of  gloved  hands  shot  out 
and  gripped  the  rowboat.  Its  buffers  rebounded  against  the 
sides  of  the  moving  motor-boat.  Then :  "Hold  on,  boys."  It 
was  a  command  not  easily  obeyed  in  that  troubled  water  with- 
out wrenching  of  arms.  But  Hugo's  strength  prevailed. 
Pink  hove  one  anchor  down,  another  up.  Arnold  capped  the 
engine  with  its  canvas  covering.  The  boats  rocked  precari- 
ously as  they  clambered  aboard  and  all  three  put  their  strength 
into  pushing  off;  for  they  could  not  row,  or  scull,  or  paddle 
among  those  waves,  could  only  punt  along  with  the  butt  ends 
of  their  oars.  Finally  Hugo  leaped  out,  painter  in  hand  and 
breast-high  in  water,  and  dragged  the  boat  into  the  shallows 
and  underneath  the  boat-house  arch.  "Go  on  up  to  the  house 


The  Hue  and  Cry  441 

and  get  dry/'  said  Arnold.  "I'll  lock  up,  and  fill  the  lanterns 
again  in  case  we  should  be  unfortunate  enough  to  have  the 
Cormorant  blow  in  with  this  storm.  But  I  guess  we're  in  for 
another  night  on  the  water.  So  get  to  bed  and  get  all  the 
sleep  you  can.  Hurry  and  change  those  wet  things,  Hugo." 

"Unfortunate !"  commented  Hugo,  stretching  his  big  body 
and  venting  a  tremendous  yawn.  Arnold  nodded  and  pointed. 

"There's  where  the  wind's  coming  from.  Have  you  forgotten 
all  you  ever  knew  about  storms  ?"  The  smoky  light  of  the  lan- 
tern on  the  boat-house  "float"  revealed  Arnold  pointing  to  the 
northeast. 

"But  I  guess  Danny's  safe  and  sound  in  some  secluded  har- 
bor now.  He  knows  better  than  to  skirt  the  North  Shore  dur- 
ing a  storm.  Especially  when  he  daren't  ship  a  pilot.  It's  a 
perfect  belt  of  rocks  and  shoals,  Pink,  from  Port  Jefferson  to 
Montauk.  ...  Go  ahead,  Hugo.  Don't  wait  for  me. 
Take  this  pocket-light :  I  don't  need  it." 

Arnold  locked  the  boat-house  water-gate,  unlocked  the  rear 
entrance  letting  them  out,  took  up  a  long  pole,  a  hook  at  one 
end.  In  the  middle  of  their  steep  ascent,  the  path  was  sud- 
denly darkened,  for  Arnold  had  used  that  pole  to  fetch  down 
the  three  lanterns  swung  at  the  boat-house  peak — at  which 
Pink  cursed  lustily,  before  remembering  the  little  pocket- 
light.  When  he  made  ready  to  ascend,  himself,  having  refilled 
and  replaced  the  lanterns,  Arnold  heard  Pink  curse,  though 
faintly,  at  some  distance.  He  had  stumbled  again,  probably. 

Because  of  the  long  occupancy  of  the  house  on  the  bluff,  Ar- 
nold had  a  greater  proficiency  in  climbing  hills  in  general, 
this  one  in  particular;  and  climbed  so  rapidly  as  almost  to 
overtake  the  others.  But  nearing  the  top,  he  again  heard  Pink 
at  his  profane  best; — no  novelty  to  any  one  well  acquainted 
with  that  young  gentleman.  Yet  the  peculiarity  attendant 
upon  this  brought  Arnold  to  a  halt.  Just  what  that  pecu- 
liarity was  Arnold  could  not  say ;  perhaps  there  was  none  and 
it  was  only  his  instinct  that  made  him  stand  stony  and  still, 
straining  his  ears. 


442  God's  Man 

Now  it  seemed  that  some  one  was  gurgling;  was  endeavor- 
ing to  become  vocal  by  sheer  gutturals,  was  indulging  in  exer- 
cise of  the  throat  muscles,  or  attempting  a  sort  of  choked 
Chinese.  This  soon  ceased.  Whispering  began. 

At  such  a  time,  especially  when  one  combines  a  trouble- 
some conscience  with  a  vivid  imagination  and  uncertain 
nerves  and  knows  these  may  combine  to  bring  about  delusions 
or  hallucinations,  anything  is  better  than  uncertainty.  Arnold 
could  endure  a  statue-like  pose  physically  but  not  mentally. 

He  raised  a  tentative  foot  and  listened  as  he  lowered  it;  it 
seemed  noiseless  enough.  Fortunately,  the  rain,  now  descend- 
ing in  torrents  and  driven  by  the  wind,  made  inaudible  any 
movements  as  light  and  certain  as  his.  Better,  the  gravel  and 
loose  stones  would  not  now  rattle  and  roll  at  every  footstep ; 
the  clayey  soil  was  becoming  moist  red  mud. 

Needing  no  light  like  the  others,  Arnold's  approach  went 
unheard;  though  three  men  were  above  and  listening  almost 
as  intently  as  he.  But,  having  more  at  stake,  he  knew  of  their 
presence  before  they  had  any  notion  of  his ;  so  again  he  stood 
silent  and  stony. 

Some  one  has  stated — too  aptly  to  admit  of  any  paraphrase, 
— that  when  any  bodily  function  ceases  to  be  unconscious  it 
ceases  to  be  correct.  Those  three  men  at  the  head  of  the  path 
were  doing  their  best  to  prevent  their  breathing  from  betray- 
ing them,  which  only  resolved  itself  into  a  series  of  seconds 
when  they  did  not  breathe  at  all,  followed  by  a  shorter  series 
when  they  breathed  too  hard.  Having  detected  their  presence 
through  this  idiosyncrasy,  Arnold  took  care  not  to  do  likewise ; 
continuing  to  breathe  as  naturally  as  short  breaths  at  frequent 
intervals  would  allow,  a  sound  too  soft  to  equal  the  combina- 
tion of  wind  and  rain.  Yet  even  he  paid  for  his  consciousness, 
and  could  only  stand  there,  stupidly  wondering  who  his  prob- 
able enemies  might  be,  being  quite  unable  to  use  his  brain  for 
any  purpose  other  than  compassing  an  imitation  of  regular 
breathing. 


The  Hue  and  Cry  443 

The  next  moment,  however,  he  had  no  need  to  simulate. 
The  new  sound  that  he  heard — such  a  sound  as  might  result 
from  a  giant  flounder  flopping  about  on  a  muddy  shore — made 
him  forget  not  to  breathe  regularly.  Followed  straining  and 
snapping — seams  were  bursting,  cloth  was  ripping  as  the  mus- 
cles of  strong  men  pitted  against  one  another  swelled  to  the 
breaking  point.  Then  a  choked  anguished  yelp,  was  fairly 
driven  out  of  some  sufferer;  the  result  of  the  sudden  impact  of 
something  very  hard  and  something  very  soft. 

To  construct  the  situation  for  the  mind's  eye  was  not  diffi- 
cult after  such  sounds.  Had  the  darkness  suddenly  revealed 
the  facts,  Arnold  could  not  have  seen  the  struggle  more  clearly. 
One  man  had  been  on  his  back  in  the  mud, — hence  the  sound 
of  the  flopping  flounder.  A  second  man  had  been  endeavoring 
to  gag  the  first,  while  sitting  on  his  chest, — hence  the  strain- 
ing and  snapping  and  bursting  and  ripping.  Then  the  man 
in  the  mud  had  suddenly  relaxed  and  driven  an  upward  elbow 
into  the  other's  abdomen, — hence  the  yelp.  Now,  as  Arnold 
listened,  he  heard  muffled  groans  and  fierce  whispers.  Then  a 
heavy  fall. 

Instinctively,  Arnold  swerved  from  the  path;  and  none  too 
soon.  In  a  wild  embrace,  a  bundle  of  arms  and  legs  came  roll- 
ing over  and  over  down  the  steep  hill.  From  above,  some  one 
relaxed  his  vigilance  and  a  voice  rose  high  and  shrill. 

"Beat  it,  Lord  Chesterfield.  Hoof  it,  Sir  Mortimer.  Ge- 
gug-gug-gug."  There  was  no  gagging  this  time:  it  was  a 
plain  case  of  throttling.  Louder  than  the  noise  made  by  the 
fighting  men  below,  rose  the  harsh  notes  of  a  stranger's  voice 
— a  stranger's  to  Arnold,  at  least,  but  well  enough  known  to 
Pink :  that  of  Burly  Jones'. 

"No  use  trying  to  be  quiet  now.  Get  down  that  hill,  one  of 
you,  and  help  the  Sheriff.  You  other  fellows  take  that  far 
path  and  head  him  off  if  he  tries  to  go  that  way.  I'll  take  the 
other  side  as  soon  as  I  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  horrible  menace  in  his  unspoken  words.    Pink, 


444  God's  Man 

his  consciousness  fading  out,  rallied  for  one  last  attempt  to 
warn  the  as  yet  uncaptured  Arnold.  "With  a  strength  Jones 
had  never  guessed  Pink  possessed,  he  wriggled  free. 

"New  York  coppers,  Duke.  Beat  it.  You  can't  help  us. 
We're  gone.  We — "  This  time  he  was  cut  short  in  so  silent 
and  sinister  a  fashion, — a  hlow  from  the  butt-end  of  a  revolver 
was  not  likely  to  he  heard  in  the  noise  made  below — that 
Arnold  shuddered. 

"New  York  coppers"  .  .  .  Arnold,  dazed,  wondered 
how  that  might  be.  "New  York  coppers"  .  .  .  That 
meant  everything  was  known.  But  how?  .  .  .  Arnold 
rocked  and  swayed  as  he  stood.  A  man  came  rushing  past  him 
to  the  assistance  of  one  of  the  combatants  down  below.  The 
man  who  had  silenced  Pink  was  running  toward  the  path  that 
led  to  Harbor  Hill,  a  third  man  in  the  opposite  direction. 
This  was  to  surround  him  whom  they  supposed  to  be  on  the 
beach.  Arnold  crouched  down  behind  some  scrubby  furze 
bushes,  too  dazed  to  determine  what  to  do. 

There  was  a  yell  of  triumph  below.  "Sit  on  his  feet,  Tom/' 
came  hoarsely  in  a  well-remembered  voice.  Hugh  Legare ! 
Arnold  winced,  bit  his  lip,  clenched  his  teeth,  closed  his  eyes. 
But  he  could  not  shut  out  the  mental  picture.  Hugh  Legare ! ! 
Then  Havre  de  Grace  knew  that  their  dearly  beloved  Parson's 
eldest  son  was  a  ... 

"If  the  other  fellow  can  fight  like  this  one.  ...  A 
thousand  pounds  of  wildcats,  Tom !  Sit  on  his  feet  I  tell  you. 
I've  got  to  get  my  breath.  ...  I  don't  believe  young 
Arnold  L'Hommedieu's  mixed  up  in  this,  do  you  ?  This  ain't 
him,  thaf  s  sure.  And  why  would  he  be  ?  Let's  have  a  look  at 
this  fellow.  He  must  be  a  prize-fighter." 

Arnold  crouched  lower,  hugging  the  ragged  furze  bushes, 
until  he  squatted  close  to  the  ground.  His  eyes  were  closed, 
but  he  felt  the  little  flash  ten  feet  below,  felt  it  as  if  it  were  a 
blow.  And  a  second  blow  seemed  to  have  been  dealt  him, 
when  the  Sheriff's  shout  of  intermingled  amazement  and  fear 
assaulted  hirp  so  harshly,  so  loudly,  that,  for  a  moment,  his 


The  Hue  and  Cry  445 

ears  rang.  Legare's  emotion  had  not  been  couched  in  words, 
— it  was  too  strong  for  that, — it  was  the  snarl  of  a  trapped 
animal. 

Nor  did  he  become  articulate  for  some  little  time;  only 
stood  staring  stupidly.  Then,  out  of  the  darkness,  for  not 
even  sufficient  strength  had  remained  in  his  great  frame  to 
keep  the  button  of  the  pocket-light  pressed,  and  in  an  almost 
unrecognizable  voice  so  still  and  small  was  it, — he  addressed 
Tom  Heaney : 

"Here !  L-l-look  at  him  and  tell  me  who  it  is.  I've  gone 
crazy  I  think,  dead  crazy." 

Arnold  peered  through  the  bushes  and  saw  the  two  men, 
their  giant  shadows  decapitated  by  the  circumference  of  the 
ragged  circle  of  light  on  the  diameter  of  which  Hugo  lay. 
Tom  Heaney  was  kneeling  over  and  peering  into  his  face. 
"It's  Hugo  Waldemar,"  he  said  presently,  having  been  un- 
able to  answer  immediately  because  of  his  amazement. 

At  the  sound  of  his  name,  Hugo  groaned  and  half  raised 
himself.  This  time,  he  met  no  angry  opposition.  Instead, 
with  clumsy  tenderness,  the  Colossus  raised  him  up  and  sup- 
ported him,  Heaney  still  holding  the  light.  "Hugo !  Hugo 
Waldemar,"  the  Colossus  said  quite  blankly.  Hugo's  stare 
was  equally  blank. 

There  was  more  than  a  similarity  of  name  and  size  between 
Hugh  and  Hugo:  both  had  the  same  slow  wits,  the  same 
tenacity  of  purpose.  Hugh  in  Hugo's  place  would  have  done 
as  Hugo  had  done :  Hugo  in  Hugh's,  would  have  done  what 
Hugh  was  about  to  do.  Despite  a  difference  of  twenty  years 
in  their  ages  the  man  and  the  boy  had  been  better  friends  than 
most.  The  Colossus  figured  next  to  Arnold  and  Archie  in 
Hugo's  affections.  As  for  Hugh  it  is  doubtful  if  he  could 
have  sacrificed  for  any  person  other  than  his  wife  and  mother, 
half  so  much  as  he  now  proposed  to  sacrifice  for  Hugo.  He 
came  of  that  sort  of  stock;  was  of  the  type  of  the  Great  Dane 
or  mastiff,  like  that  paternal  progenitor  and  namesake  the 


446  God's  Man 

faithful  follower  of  the  Chevalier  L'Hommedieu ;  a  type 
America  lost  long  ago  in  vain  striving  for  social  "equality." 

"Git  back  to  that  other  fellow  and  see  what  the  New  York- 
er's done  to  him  to  keep  him  quiet,"  said  Legare  to  Tom 
Heaney ;  and,  as  Tom  lingered :  "Git,  I  told  you.  I  can  look 
after  him."  He  was  breathing  hard.  Tom  thought  it  best  to 
go.  The  Colossus  gulped,  but  managed  to  address  Hugo 
quietly,  very  quietly: 

"It  ain't  true  what  these  New  York  policemen  say  ? — is  it  ? 
About  this  opium  smuggling?  Say  'No,'  Hugo !  You've  just 
got  to  say  'No.'  Say  it,  and  I'll  let  you  walk  off  as  free  as 
air — and  won't  tell  a  soul." 

He  was  pleading  as  he  would  never  have  done  to  save  him- 
self. And  when  Hugo,  silent  and  sullen,  withdrew  himself 
from  Hugh's  protecting  arm,  the  Colossus  vented  another  of 
his  inarticulate  snarls.  It  was  not,  however,  directed  at  his 
friend,  but  at  fate. 

"It  can't  be}  Hugo!  It's  impossible,  boy.  You  don't  un- 
derstand." Then,  hoarsely :  "Eun  off  to'ards  Snake  Hollow. 
I'll  see  that  Tom  Heaney  keeps  his  mouth  shut.  And  I'll  tell 
the  New  Yorker  you  were  too  many  for  me.  Go  on,  now !  Go 
on,  Hugo ! !  He's  liable  to  be  back  any  minute  and  then  it's 
all  up.  Go  on!!" 

It  is  said  that  men,  real  men,  do  not  shed  tears.  "Well  for 
them  these  Colossi  were  not  small  nor  even  of  average  size. 
Well  for  them  their  brawn  and  their  lack  of  extraordinary 
brains  brought  them  within  the  specifications  of  "red-blooded" 
writers  for  "man's  men."  Both  were  grateful  for  the  darkness 
that  precluded  a  sight  of  their  faces;  and  Hugo,  feeling  for 
his  friend,  Hugh's  huge  hand  met  his. 

"Old  pal,"  the  younger  man  whispered.  "Gee !  but  you're 
a  great  old  pal !  D*you  think  I'd  do  it  ?  And  get  you  in  bad  ? 
Maybe  get  you  in  jail?  Heaney  tells  everything  he  knows 
when  he's  drunk.  ...  I  guess  you'll  have  to  lock  me  up, 
Hugh.  I'm  not  going  to  let  them  lock  you  up." 


The  Hue  and  Cry  447 

His  arm  slipped  about  the  colossal  shoulder  and  squeezed  it 
tight.  "You're  the  whitest  man  I  know,"  he  said.  But  the 
Colossus  shook  off  his  embrace  impatiently, — ashamed  of  his 
emotion  and  angry  at  Hugo  for  abetting  it. 

"You  don't  understand,"  he  said  in  the  same  hoarse  whis- 
per. But  whispering  is  not  the  best  thing  a  leather-lunged 
Colossus  does  and  Arnold  heard  him.  "I  tell  you  you've  got 
to  go.  I'm  going  to  walk  off  and  leave  you.  You  do  what  I 
tell  you :  Heaney's  all  right.  Get  on  with  you,  Hugo."  But 
the  other  again  refused  him,  gruffly. 

"Oh !  you  damn'  fool ! — listen !  I  didn't  want  to  tell  you, 
but  I've  got  to.  It's  the  only  way  to  make  you  see  you've  got 
to  go.  Brace  yourself.  It's  pretty  bad  news.  About  the 
worst,  I  guess.  I'm  sorry  you  make  me  tell  it.  "Wasn't  it 
enough  for  one  night  I  had  to  see  Archie  Hartogensis  lying 
on  the  floor  in  his  own  house  and  his  own  father  making  out 
a  warrant  for  him  without  knowing.  .  .  ." 

"Archie !"  gasped  Hugo.  "His  father !  They  got  Archie  ? 
Archie!  Good  God!  .  .  ."  He  held  his  breath.  "Now  I 
have  got  to  go  with  you,  Hugh.  I  can't  let  Arch  stand  for  the 
whole  thing — " 

"Wait,"  said  the  Colossus  sternly.  "D'you  know  what 
Archie  was  arrested  for ? — him  and  the  other  fellow  ?  Not  for 
smuggling  opium:  we  didn't  find  out  about  that  till  after. 
No,  Hugo.  .  .  .  and  here's  why  you'll  have  to  keep  out 
of  this.  Murder !  Yes !  .  .  . '  I  dunno  which  one  did  it 
— neither  one  'ull  tell.  But  they  heard  somebody  outside 
while  they  were  up  there  in  the  Hopkins  house  waiting  for 
you  to  come  back,  and — and — well,  they  shot  at  him — and — 
and—"  he  paused.  "I  don't  see  why  I've  got  to  tell  you, 
Hugo.  Won't  you  take  my  word  for  it  you've  got  to  get 
away?"  .  .  . 

Silence ;  then,  from  between  dry  lips :  "Who  was  it  ?  Who 
was  it,  Hugh?" 

The  Colossus  reached  for  him.    "You  sure  you  can  stand 


448  God's  Man 

it?"  He  gripped  both  his  shoulders.  "It's  some  one  very 
dear  to  you/'  he  said  weakly.  "Some  one — " 

"Oh,  for  God's  sake/'  Hugo  broke  in  fiercely— fiercely  for 
him,  the  gentlest  of  men.  "Who  ?" 

"Your  father,"  said  Hugh,  so  low  that  the  wind  and  rain 
drowned  his  answer  for  Arnold. 

Hugo  stiffened.  "My  father!"  he  croaked.  "My  father!!! 
My  father."  And  Arnold  heard  this  time,  and  heard  no  more 
until  the  sound  of  his  name  brought  him  out  of  his  daze. 

".  .  .  It's  bad  enough  for  Arnold  L'Hommedieu  to  be 
mixed  up  in  it,  without  you!  Now,  you'll  go,  won't  you, 
Hugo?" 

Silence  again;  then  the  sound  of  the  two  men  squashing 
clayey  mud  under  their  boots  as  they  came  up  the  hill.  Ar- 
nold's eyes,  accustomed,  now,  even  to  the  Stygian  blackness 
the  storm  had  brought,  made  out  the  two  figures  close  to- 
gether. Hugo  did  not  draw  away  from  Hugh's  support  now. 

Silence  once  more;  some  muttering  above,  .  .  .  voices 
...  a  wild  shouting  ...  the  simultaneous  bang-bang 
of  two  revolvers.  .  .  .  Shooting  and  shouting  continued 
apace.  The  Sheriff  and  Tom  Heaney  were  covering  Hugo's 
escape.  Arnold  saw  that  the  pink  puffs  of  the  revolver  shots 
ascended  directly  upward. 

II.    ARNOLD  ESCAPES 

Under  cover  of  this  noise,  Arnold  ran  rapidly  in  an  oppo- 
site direction,  ran  through  bushes  and  clumps  of  young  trees, 
not  even  seeking  a  path,  but  finding  one  as  unconsciously  as 
he  had  realized  that  now  was  the  time  for  him  to  escape.  His 
instinct — subconsciousness,  what  you  will — was  entirely  re- 
sponsible. That  part  of  his  brain  had  taken  charge,  had 
noted  Jones  and  the  other  Tom  on  the  beach,  the  Colossus 
and  Tom  Heaney  running  beyond  the  house.  And  that  part 
of  him  guided  his  footsteps,  was  aware  of  a  place  where  he 


The  Hue  and  Cry  449 

might  lie  hidden — and,  what  was  as  important,  fed — though 
his  pursuers  searched  the  surrounding  country.  None  other 
than  the  hut  of  ancient  timbers  on  No-Man's  Land,  the  resi- 
dence of  the  peninsula  philosopher. 

Unconsciously,  be  it  repeated.  As  yet,  his  conscious  brain 
had  not  recovered  from  the  shock  administered  by  the  Sheriff. 
It  was  not  that  Arnold  cared  whether  Waldemar  lived  or 
died,  so  fiercely  did  he  dislike  the  man.  The  horror  that  ani- 
mated him  was  the  same  that  had  caused  the  Colossus  to  insist 
on  Hugo's  flight.  Hugo's  father  killed  by  Hugo's  best  friend 
and  while  acting  as  Hugo's  partner  in  a  venture,  but  for 
which  the  father  would  still  be  alive. 

Waldemar — the  Squire — Hugo — Archie!  Archie,  yes!  It 
was  never  Beau, — the  pacific  Beau  who  had  often  boasted  that 
he  abhorred  weapons,  that  true  "grifters"  needed  none,  only 
amateurs.  Arnold  remembered  Archie's  rage  at  the  crow,  his 
intention  to  throttle  it.  Archie,  yes !  Archie !  And  Archie 
was  a  prisoner,  the  prisoner  of  his  own  father.  .  .  .  Truly 
Arnold's  conscious  mind  had  enough  to  occupy  it :  it  was  nec- 
essary that  instinct  protect  him. 

But  how  had  Waldemar  come  there?  How  had  the  New 
York  police  become  aware  of  the  smuggling  conspiracy  ?  What 
would  happen  to  the  Cormorant?  To  Archie?  To  Pink?  To 
Beau  ?  Wearily  Arnold's  mind  refused  to  consider  these  mat- 
ters, settled  down  to  a  dull  apathetic  consideration  of  his  own 
position. 

Having  reached  a  part  of  the  woods  far  distant  from  the 
Swiss  chalet,  he  dropped  down  amid  the  wet  leaves  and  lis- 
tened for  sounds  of  pursuit.  There  was  none.  Having  lis- 
tened, he  began  to  remember  why  it  was  he  had  come  in  that 
direction,  and  soon  arose  wearily  and  hastened  on,  for  he  had 
still  a  long  way  to  go.  Taking  his  bearings,  he  doubled  back 
toward  the  bluff  road,  the  easiest  road ;  but  reaching  the  part 
of  the  woods  skirting  it,  he  paused  and  listened  again.  Then 
he  went  forward  cautiously  lest  he  be  precipitated  over  the 
edge  of  the  bluff;  and,  hearing  the  roar  of  the  sea  very  near, 


450  God's  Man 

he  threw  himself  down  and  crawled  the  remainder  of  the  dis- 
tance. 

Face  downward,  he  peered  over  the  edge,  endeavoring  to 
survey  the  scene  below  and  beyond.  In  the  darkness  and  driv* 
ing  rain  his  gaze  met  only  vague  black  tree  and  rock  forms,  he 
heard  only  the  wind's  soughing  and  the  rain's  pattering; 
that  is,  when  sudden  gusts  did  not  shriek  and  whistle  and 
drive  the  rain  against  his  oilskins  with  a  clatter  like  hail. 
Down  below  the  breakers  were  roaring,  and  such  roaring  as  he 
could  not  remember  having  heard.  Truly,  he  could  not,  for 
under  average  circumstances  he  would  have  remained  indoors 
when  a  storm  like  this  one  was  raging.  If  before  he  had 
likened  to  heavy  artillery  the  angry  pounding  of  the  beach,  he 
was  now  reduced  to  a  realization  of  the  feebleness  of  human 
comparisons  when  Nature  is  at  her  worst  or  best. 

One  steady  roaring  crash  was  in  his  ears,  and  even  when 
thunder  shook  the  sky,  had  not  the  accompanying  lightning 
gilded  great  rifts  in  it,  the  added  crashing  would  be  gone  al- 
most unheard  in  that  war  of  winds  and  waves. 

As  these  steely  silver  rifts  were  revealed  like  the  illumined 
veins  of  some  bloodless  Atlas,  Arnold  strained  his  eyes.  His 
two  enemies  on  the  beach  half  a  mile  beyond  seemed  two  small 
black  bundles  rolling  along  in  some  mysterious  fashion;  the 
beach  a  white  strip  at  the  foot  of  the  cliffs  and  rapidly  dimin- 
ishing as  the  inky  breakers  came  rolling  and  pitching  ashore. 
The  next  flash  revealed  the  two  black  bundles  rolled  together, 
the  next  showed  them  separate  again  and  half-way  up  the 
path,  like  spiders  on  a  sticky  ceiling.  Evidently  they  had 
failed  to-  find  one  of  the  two  paths  or  had  feared  to  wait  to 
find  one;  for  when  Arnold  saw  them  for  the  fourth  time,  he 
judged  from  strained  positions  that  they  were  hauling  them- 
selves up  by  means  of  bushes  too  small  for  him,  at  that  dis- 
tance, to  see. 

At  their  heels  the  breakers  roared.  The  white  strip  had 
wholly  disappeared.  The  black  mountains,  hurled  up  out  of 


The  Hue  and  Cry  451 

the  sea,  were  breaking  into  spray  and  foam  that,  in  the  light- 
ning flashes  was  like  millions  of  glittering  uptossed  stars. 

Well,  he  had  nothing  to  fear  from  two  of  his  pursuers  for 
some  time  to  come.  He  got  to  his  feet,  albeit  more  slowly  than 
usual,  for,  now  the  excitement  had  passed,  he  had  begun  to 
feel  exhausted.  Luckily  his  oilskin  coat,  hooked  tight  about 
his  throat,  in  conjunction  with  his  fisherman's  boots,  had  kept 
him  dry.  He  gave  weary  thanks  for  that.  Had  sodden  clothes 
and  half-frozen  feet  been  added  to  his  other  miseries,  he 
doubted  he  would  have  found  escape  a  sufficient  inducement 
to  endure  the  trials  and  perils  of  the  journey  ahead  of  him. 
After  all,  escape,  or  capture,  it  mattered  very  little  now.  He 
had  lost  everything,  even  his  good  name,  the  name  that  had 
been  kept  stainless  by  so  many  generations  only  for  him  to  tar- 
nish. And  his  father,  after  sixty  years  of  self-sacrifice.  .  .  . 

Arnold's  groan  was  cut  short.  A  wild  hope  had  thrilled 
him.  .  .  .  Why  not?  Hugo  had  his  father's  fortune. 
Money  could  do  anything,  nowadays.  Archie  and  Beau  and 
Pink  would  keep  silent  about  Hugo,  and  Hugo  would  see  that 
they  went  free.  And  silence  about  Hugo  included  silence 
about  Arnold.  His  house?  He  could  claim  to  have  been 
away  for  the  night  with  the  peninsular  philosopher.  Archie 
would  not  be  harmed  any  the  more  by  saying  that  Arnold  had 
loaned  him  the  house  for  that  night.  Anyhow,  no  opium  had 
been  landed,  no  infraction  of  the  law  had  been  committed  by 
any  one  save  Archie;  (he  did  not  doubt  it  was  Archie) — 
therefore  why  should  Archie  not  shoulder  all  responsibility? 

A  wave  of  relief  swept  over  Arnold.  He  quickened  his  pace 
to  a  run.  Turning  a  bend  in  the  path  along  the  bluff,  he  saw 
the  lighthouse  dead  ahead.  Across  the  channel  lay  the  sand- 
dunes  ;  beyond,  the  philosopher's  peninsula. 

Arnold  teetered  along  the  strip  of  road,  grasping  at  young 
trees,  bushes  and  overhanging  boughs  to  steady  himself 
against  the  fierce  blasts.  Once  he  was  hurled  against  a  great 
pine  and  stood  there,  back  to  the  roaring  gale,  getting  his 


452  God's  Man 

breath;  continuing  with  a  comparatively  light  heart,  so  ef- 
fectual is  contrast. 

Five  hours  before  he  had  been  in  unquestioned  possession  of 
a  reputation  that  he  must  now  struggle  hard  to  retain;  and 
then  he  had  been  gloomy.  Xow,  with  only  a  fighting  chance, 
he  was  almost  gay.  He  forgot  Hugo's  tragedy  and  Archie's, 
forgot  the  Cormorant.  Given  the  greatest  danger,  the  greatest 
sorrow,  man  needs  only  the  slightest  hope  to  rally ;  and  if  he 
must  concentrate  upon  difficulties  besetting  the  fulfilment  of 
that  hope,  he  becomes  as  single-minded  as  any  woman.  It  was 
not  that  Arnold  had  become  hardened  of  heart;  it  was  only 
that,  in  the  event  of  a  tragedy  that  personally  involves  any 
person,  the  mind  is  so  weakened  by  the  shock  that  the  prim- 
itive instincts  easily  overcome  it — and  as  the  greatest  of  these 
is  self-preservation,  that  is  the  one  immediately  uppermost. 

Besides,  Arnold  had  little  time  for  speculation.  In  that 
great  gale,  he  could  barely  keep  on  his  feet;  and  in  the  con- 
tinual daze  in  which  the  stinging  salt  wind  and  whipping  rain 
kept  him,  it  was  a  miracle  he  did  not  stumble  over  the  bluff 
and  roll  down,  to  be  swept  away  under  one  of  those  inky 
mountains  below.  And  now  that  his  path  widened  and  began 
to  slope  downward  toward  the  sea-wall  on  which  the  light- 
house was  reared,  Arnold  must  advance  with  superlative  cau- 
tion. Undoubtedly  the  keeper  had  been  awakened  by  the 
storm,  and,  as  Arnold  wished  to  preserve  his  alibi,  and,  besides, 
intended  to  cross  the  channel  in  the  lighthouse  keeper's  dory, 
— a  desperate  project,  but  he  saw  no  other  way — it  behooved 
him  to  avoid  its  owner's  notice.  So,  whenever  the  bright  re- 
flectors swung  around  in  his  direction,  washing  with  yellow  a 
quarter-mile  of  the  black  country  before  him,  Arnold  flung 
himself  flat,  face  downward. 

Even  in  the  days  of  his  renowned  ancestor,  the  Chevalier 
Etienne,  the  Harbor  of  Havre  de  Grace  had  the  shape  of  a 
square  case-bottle,  its  entrance,  the  neck  thereof,  the  reposi- 
tory of  a  swiftly  moving  current  that  continued  some  way  out 
to  sea.  Here,  meeting  some  cross-currents,  it  became  that  dan- 


The  Hue  and  Cry  453 

gerous  swirl  we  have  had  occasion  to  remark  before.  But 
within  the  bottle-neck  it  was  not  particularly  perilous, — save 
on  a  night  like  this  when  a  mill-pond  would  have  become  a 
whirlpool. 

The  bottle-neck  had  been,  originally,  only  twenty  yards 
wide.  Now  that  it  had  been  strengthened  by  a  sea-wall, — a 
dyke  of  granite  and  cement  sunk  in  the  water  and  raised  above 
it  to  a  height  of  twenty  feet  on  each  side, — the  bottle-neck  had 
lost  several  yards.  Thus  Arnold's  voyage,  unless  he  was  swept 
out  to  sea  (which  was  unlikely  as  the  tide  was  coming  in) 
would  be  a  short  one.  There  was  a  probability  that  the  boat 
would  be  overturned  when  first  launched;  it  was  a  certainty 
that  he  would  be  helpless  in  such  a  sea;  and  would  be  swept 
along,  the  oars — if  he  attempted  to  use  them — torn  out  of  his 
hands. 

But  Arnold  knew  that  the  current  circled  the  opposite  shore 
and  that,  during  storms,  even  the  Connecticut  mail-steamer 
had  some  ado  to  prevent  being  beached  there.  It  was  on  this 
that  he  based  his  hope  of  reaching  the  peninsula. 

The  sea-wall  reached  its  highest  point  on  the  Sound  side. 
At  right-angles  to  this,  at  the  junction  of  Sound  and  channel, 
it  began,  gradually,  to  slope  until,  where  the  lighthouse  keep- 
er's boat  lay,  the  height  was  less  than  twenty  feet.  Here, 
some  ingenious  Treasury  engineer,  familiar  with  medieval 
architecture,  had  fitted  an  archway  modeled  on  the  water- 
gates  found  in  the  majority  of  castles  and  "moated  granges" 
of  the  middle  ages ;  and  when  the  water  reached  the  topmost 
red  lines  on  either  side,  indicating  high-water  mark,  the 
arch  just  cleared  the  head  of  the  seated  boatman.  On 
extraordinary  occasions  it  had  been  known  to  carry  away  his 
hat;  hence,  in  a  storm  like  this,  it  was  possible  that  there 
would  be  barely  room  enough  for  the  boat  itself  to  pass 
through  even  though  Arnold  lay  flat  in  the  bottom. 

He  found  this  possibility  a  fact  when,  after  much  reconnoi- 
tering  to  reach  the  lower  extremity  of  the  sea-wall  unseen,  he 
discovered  thai  the  little  dory  had  been  dragged  out  of  its  arti- 


454  God's  Man 

ficial  channel  and  was  resting  slantwise  against  a  sand-barrow. 
The  light-keeper  must  have  moved  it  within  the  last  hour,  for 
scarcely  more  than  that  had  elapsed  since  Arnold  had  felt  the 
first  raindrops  on  his  face. 

He  crouched  in  the  shelter  of  the  boat  and  dared  pnsh  it  only 
when  the  rays  of  the  light  traveled  out  to  sea.  This  meant  he 
could  be  occupied  only  half  his  time :  the  remainder  was  spent 
in  shivering;  for  now  that  the  light  had  revealed  the  swollen 
channel,  Arnold  had  begun  to  realize  the  risk  he  was  about  to 
run.  No  boat  could  live  out  there  among  those  menacing  hills 
of  pale  green  water,  amid  those  dangerous  valleys  of  boiling 
white  foam.  Even  the  sheltered  waters  of  the  little  channel 
angrily  assaulted  the  shore  and  spat  out  spume  and  spindrift. 

"It's  do  it,  or  do  worse,"  Arnold  said  defiantly.  "It's  a 
chance,  anyhow.  And  it's  the  only  chance/' 

The  sound  of  his  voice  helped  to  convince,  to  confirm,  him 
in  his  resolution.  The  boat,  after  many  pushes,  begun  to  slide 
so  easily  that  he  knew  it  was  on  the  shelving  shore.  Then  it 
gave  a  surprisingly  sudden  movement,  as  though  it  would 
wrench  itself  away  from  him.  He  sprang  for  the  stern  and 
lay  spraddling  it,  then  threw  his  weight  forward  and  came 
down  on  his  flattened  palms  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat. 

His  weight  gave  the  little  craft  an  added  impetus,  drove  it 
against  the  right  bank  of  its  little  basin.  It  vibrated  from  the 
shock  of  impact  with  solid  granite,  veered  around  and  struck 
the  opposite  wall  with  its  stern.  This  suddenly  straightened 
its  course,  and  threw  it  in  the  direct  center.  Then,  caught  on 
the  crest  of  a  retracting  wave,  the  boat  was  driven  forward, 
and  so  hard  and  high  that  it  struck  the  center  of  the  arch. 

The  shock  of  this  broke  Arnold's  finger-nails  and  drove  the 
boat  around  broadside.  Drawn  forward  again  by  the  suction 
following  the  retreating  wave,  a  valley  of  swirling  water  re- 
placing the  hill,  the  boat  would  have  passed  under  the  arch, 
had  the  arch  been  of  sufficient  width.  But  it  had  been  no  in- 
tention of  its  builder  that  boats  should  pass  through  broad- 
side, so  the  boat's  nose  struck  one  of  the  archway  pillars.  This 


The  Hue  and  Cry  455 

righted  it  again,— but  with  its  stern  outward.    In  this  posi- 
tion, it  was  swept  out  into  the  channel. 

Arnold  was  immediately  made  conscious  of  this  by  feeling 
that  the  boat  had  dropped  from  under  him,  had  left  him  hang- 
ing in  space; — a  feeling  familiar  to  occupants  of  an  express 
elevator  when  it  swoops  down  from  some  great  height  without 
warning; — and  also  to  aviators  caught  in  a  sudden  upward 
swoop  of  the  wind. 

But  the  sickening  sensation  was  the  one  that  followed. 
Eeaching  the  crest  of  a  great  green  hill,  the  boat  hung  there 
for  a  second  absolutely  motionless,  though  it  creaked  and 
quivered  and  all  its  timbers  groaned  in  unison.  Then,  swifter 
than  the  down-flight  of  an  eagle,  the  boat  shot  into  the  churn- 
ing valley  below. 

It  seemed  as  if  hands  weighing  hundred  weights  suddenly 
began  to  pound  Arnold's  back,  knocking  his  head  from  side  to 
side ;  and,  when  the  light  swung  that  way,  he  saw  that  he  was 
heading  straight  for  a  great  ghastly  green  cavern.  The  next 
instant,  the  boat  struck,  and  he,  hurled  aside,  began  to  spin 
around  as  if  in  a  maelstrom.  Then  the  green  waters  roared 
over  him,  but  before  his  teeth  could  chatter  at  the  terrible 
chill,  a  heavy  blow  descended  on  his  head. 

His  last  conscious  thought  was  the  hope  that  they  would 
find  his  body.  If  he  was  never  heard  of  again,  people  would 
believe  him  a  guilty  fugitive  and  his  father  would  have,  be- 
sides the  disgrace,  the  sorrow  of  having  begotten  an  Ishmael 
for  whom  he  could  only  pray  and  hope  to  the  end.  And  for 
that  unselfish  thought,  had  Arnold  died  then,  much  would 
have  been  forgiven  him.  It  is  only  at  such  a  time  that  men  are 
known  for  what  they  are. 

III.   ARNOLD  DESPAIRS 

But  Arnold  was  not  to  die  at  the  very  time  when  the  pur- 
pose for  which  he  had  served  and  suffered  was  so  nearly 
achieved.  The  same  great  breaker  that  had  crashed  him  down, 


456  God's  Man 

now  hurled  him  up  and  on  the  opposite  shore.  Another  great 
breaker  would  have  borne  him  back  had  he  remained  senseless, 
but  a  chill  attacked  him  and  a  violent  retching,  and  between 
them  they  so  racked  him,  tearing  at  his  heart  and  lungs,  that 
he  was  brought  back  to  consciousness,  the  blood  pouring  from 
his  nose  and  mouth. 

He  heard  the  hissing  fall  of  another  great  green  mountain, 
and,  instinctively,  rolled  over  and  over  until  he  no  longer  felt 
its  stinging  spray  on  his  face.  Then  he  lay  like  a  log.  He  was 
too  weak  even  to  crawl, — he  had  set  his  teeth  and  squirmed  out 
of  the  breakers'  reach  with  the  false  strength  of  frenzied  ter- 
ror. Even  now  he  clutched  about  wildly  for  some  protection 
and,  his  fingers  fastening  upon  the  needles  of  a  scrub-pine,  he 
held  to  them  tightly  regardless  of  the  pain  of  their  pricking. 

There  was  no  need  for  this  self -inflict  ion,  but  so  unreason- 
ing was  his  terror  after  his  encounter  with  that  great  monster, 
so  conscious  was  he  of  his  own  helplessness,  that  the  possibility 
of  his  safety  seemed  remote.  He  was  tense,  taut,  rallying  his 
forces  for  the  blow  that  any  instant  he  expected  to  fall,  pre- 
paring to  do  battle  again.  His  mind  was  a  blank  on  which 
was  scrawled  over  and  over  again:  "Danger,"  "Danger," 
.  .  .  scrawled  vertically,  horizontally,  diagonally, — every- 
where, so  that  there  was  room  for  nothing  more.  ...  If 
a  mental  shock  leaves  the  majority  of  one's  reasoning  powers 
in  abeyance,  a  physical  shock  of  the  same  caliber  suspends 
them  altogether, — sometimes,  in  the  cases  of  unfortunates 
such  as  Hans  Chasserton,  permanently. 

But  Arnold's  was  an  exceptionally  strong  mind  and,  in  his 
case,  the  suspension  was  brief.  The  second  shock  failing  to 
materialize,  he  relaxed,  and  relaxing  realized  that  he  was  be- 
yond the  breakers'  reach.  Still  weak,  however,  he  waited  until 
his  body  should  make  the  same  recovery  as  his  mind.  Which 
was  not  for  long,  for  the  channel  light  by  revealing  his  new 
surroundings,  gave  him  a  thrill  that  was  worth  more  than  the 
accumulated  strength  of  an  hour  of  resting — especially  now 


The  Hue  and  Cry  457 

that  he  was  wet  and  cold.    He  realized  that  he  was  on  the  op- 
posite shore. 

He  sprang  up  without  further  thought  of  weakness,  only 
slapping  at  his  drenched  body.  But  the  sea-water  squashing 
in  his  boots  sorely  deterred  him:  the  way  to  the  peninsula 
was  difficult  enough  over  wet  sand  that  deadened  all  springi- 
ness of  step ;  so  when  he  stumbled  over  his  first  hillock,  he  sat 
down  upon  it,  removed  and  poured  forth  gallons  from  the 
boots,  and  squeezed  some  extra  quarts  from  the  golf-stockings 
underneath,  also  from  his  knickerbockers  and  the  skirts  of  his 
jacket.  Having  lost  a  number  of  pounds  thereby,  he  continued 
his  journey  at  an  increased  pace. 

He  was  now  on  a  wide  tract  of  marsh  and  moor,  hillocks  and 
hummocks ;  a  vast  area  of  sheer  waste-land,  the  result  of  ages 
of  sand  and  shells  and  stones  thrown  up  by  the  sea;  fertilized 
and  colonized  by  the  sea-birds,  save  where  the  old  hut  stood, 
the  only  human  habitation  between  Havre  de  Grace  channel 
and  Green  Sands,  seven  miles  away.  For  three  miles  this 
waste-land  hemmed  in  Havre  de  Grace  Harbor ;  and,  had  Ar- 
nold chosen  to  pick  his  way  over  the  long  stretch  of  salt  marsh 
and  sand-pits  that  joined  the  desert  to  the  left  bank  of  the 
Harbor,  eventually  he  would  have  reached  the  town,  passing 
his  father's  house  on  the  way. 

Occasionally,  therefore,  he  blinked  misty  eyes  under  sticky 
wet  eyebrows  and  saw,  or  thought  he  saw,  a  misty  blur  of 
lights.  One  of  these  might  be  that  well-remembered  one  on 
L'Hommedieu  Church  steeple,  a  Gothic  lantern  hoisted  by 
steel  halliards;  and  on  stormy  nights  always  lighted  by  the 
Parson  himself ;  a  beacon  for  harbor  shipping  for  more  than  a 
century.  It  had  been  one  of  Arnold's  great  treats,  as  a  boy,  to 
be  allowed  to  accompany  his  father  on  this  exciting  trip  to  the 
belfry.  On  such  nights  as  this,  the  wind  had  an  eerie  whistle 
— which,  of  course,  was  witches  riding  around  the  bell-ringer's 
loft  on  their  broomsticks.  And  the  rats  scuttled  headlong  into 
their  holes — for  fear  of  the  wicked  black  cats  which,  as  every- 


458  God's  Man 

body  knew  (even  rats)  always  rode  with  witches.  .  .  . 
And  the  Keverend  Jorian  had  never  failed  to  bid  Arnold  ob- 
serve how  the  lantern  was  lit,  and  in  what  manner  the  hal- 
liards worked ;  for :  ".  .  .  this  will  be  your  duty  in  a  few 
years,  my  son." 

Arnold  tried  to  put  remembrance  away  from  him;  turning 
his  gaze  toward  the  blackness  of  the  tempest  again.  But, 
worse !  Young  Paul  had  lighted  the  lantern  to-night :  it  was 
his  duty  now.  An  hour  ago,  while  Arnold  crouched  in  hate  or 
fled  in  fear,  Paul,  in  his  neat  cleric's  garb  (he  had  been  or- 
dained curate  during  the  summer)  had  ascended  to  the  belfry 
on  his  errand  of  "peace  and  good-will  toward  all  men/'  .  .  . 

A  cry  escaped  him  whose  errand  this  should  have  been. 
Arnold  stood  for  a  moment  under  that  black  sky, — his 
clenched  hands  upraised, — a  tiny  impotent  speck  in  an  im- 
mensity of  space — sky  and  sea  all  one  in  that  great  void  of  the 
storm.  And,  as  he  stood  there,  he  personified  helpless  hu- 
manity protesting  against  the  remorseless  cruelty  of  the 
Infinite. 

"Why  ?— why  ?— why  ?    Oh,  my  God,  why  ?" 

Unknowingly  he  was  voicing  his  anguished  question  as  the 
peninsula  philosopher  had  said  he  would  some  day. 

"Why?— Why?—  What  am  I  punished  for?  Is  it  never 
to  end?" 

A  fit  of  terrible  rage  seized  him.  "Oh,  you — up — there," 
he  shouted.  "You !— you ! !— you ! ! !— Ah !"  He  ground  his 
teeth.  "You— merciful!!  You!  Ha!  Merciful!  Oh,  yes!" 
He  burst  into  fierce  wild  laughter. 

It  was  a  long  and  weary  way  he  had  yet  to  go.  But,  now, 
he  hardly  knew  when  he  stumbled,  no  longer  felt  weariness. 
Those  two  simple  pictures  obsessed  him :  that  child  of  long 
ago  and  that  serene-faced  youth  who  had  taken  that  child's 
place — obsessed  him,  yes,  and  brought  thoughts  more  painful 
than  any  physical  exhaustion.  And  once  when  a  fall  of  more 
than  usual  severity  sprawled  him  headlong,  momentarily 
bringing  back  the  present,  it  only  served  to  remind  him,  bit- 


The  Hue  and  Cry  459 

terly,  that  this  sightless  journey  through  the  darkness  and  the 
storm— when,  try  as  he  might  to  walk  carefully  and  well,  he 
could  not  guard  against  a  single  fall  or  injury — was  symbolical 
of  his  life  since  his  first  unexpected  tumble — that  expulsion 
from  Old  King's  University.  Since  then  .  .  .  Yes,  it  had 
been  very  like  indeed. 

IV.   ARNOLD  LEAKNS  WHY 

Dawn  was  close  at  hand  before  Arnold  came  within  sight  of 
the  little  hut.  Hardly  within  sight,  however; — as  little  as 
within  sound,  had  there  been  any;  for  neither  the  blackness 
nor  the  roaring  of  the  storm  had  abated.  But  this  shore  had 
been  a  favorite  camping-ground  for  the  Havre  de  Gravian 
youngsters  during  Arnold's  boyhood,  and  he  was  too  familiar 
with  every  curve  and  twist  of  it  not  to  be  able  to  steer  a  true 
course  and  at  any  time  to  determine  his  position  with  some- 
thing close  to  accuracy. 

But,  so  wrapped  was  he  in  gloom,  he  had  struck  off  inland 
sooner  than  he  had  intended;  therefore  was  recalled  not  only 
by  the  cold  chill  of  water  about  his  waist  but  by  the  shock 
thereof  to  his  stomach — which  amounted  to  nausea.  Recov- 
ering, he  remembered  that  the  current  that  was  endeavoring 
to  sweep  him  off  his  feet,  could  be  caused  by  nothing  save  the 
flooding  of  those  lowlands  whose  existence  was  responsible  for 
the  quasi-peninsula.  Therefore  he  was  separated  from  his 
destination  by  no  more  than  a  few  yards,  plus  whatever  extra 
width  the  invading  waters  had  managed  to  tear  away  from  the 
higher  ground  on  either  side. 

He  had  clutched  out  for  the  tall  tough  sea-grasses  he  knew 
to  be  there,  and,  even  before  he  had  ceased  to  consider  his  new 
plight,  had,  with  their  assistance,  drawn  himself  safely  ashore 
again  without  encountering  any  greater  depth  than  at  first. 

Arnold  had  lived  through  many  hard  winters,  during  which 
the  maritime  portion  of  Havre's  business  had  been  done  by 
ice-boats,  one  of  which  the  Connecticut  mail-steamer  carried 


460  God's  Man 

in  her  bows  and  often  used  to  complete  her  contracts  when 
herself  unable  to  enter  the  frozen  Harbor.  But  Arnold  never 
remembered  having  been  so  cold  as  he  was  now.  Since  ten 
o'clock  he  had  been  in  the  chilly  air.  Since  two,  he  had  en- 
countered the  storm.  For  a  period  nearly  as  long,  and  in  the 
same  steady  driving  rain,  he  had  striven  across  the  wastes, 
already  drenched  by  his  channel  catastrophe.  Now,  after  this 
second  icy  ducking,  and  in  that  unearthly  chill  that  precedes 
the  dawn,  his  teeth  jarred  together  with  all  the  force  of  his 
jaws,  his  face  ached,  and,  worse,  he  was  nauseated.  .  .  . 

These  were  good  excuses  for  bating  something  of  usual 
courtesy  and  beginning  as  loud  a  bawling  as  his  chattering 
teeth  permitted.  Without  a  light,  he  felt  that,  before  his 
blind  groping  for  the  hut  brought  results,  he  would  have  ex- 
pired from  the  cold. 

"Holloa — hol-loa — hol-1-o-a!"  he  bawled  at  the  top  of  his 
voice.  "Show— a— light!  A  light!!  Show— a  li-ight!!!" 
This  over  and  over  again,  stumbling  and  running  the  while. 
Only  for  a  moment,  however, — although  it  did  not  seem  so 
soon  to  him, — and  then  a  little  pointed  yellow  light  pierced 
the  darkness,  wavered,  stood  erect,  and  there  was  the  philoso- 
pher in  his  doorway,  the  skirts  of  a  flannel  dressing-gown 
flung  over  his  shoulder  like  a  cloak,  and  in  his  hand  a  small 
bronze  night-light  shaped  like  the  widow's  cruse,  its  spout 
aflame. 

Arnold  exhausted  his  remaining  strength  in  redoubling  his 
speed,  and,  reaching  the  doorway,  pushed  past  his  host  and 
into  the  dark  room  beyond,  dark  save  for  a  few  remaining 
embers  in  the  fireplace.  To  these  Arnold  pointed  in  bitter 
disappointment,  babbling  almost  incoherently. 

"A  fire!  I  thought  you'd  have  a  fire.  Light  one — quick. 
I'm  nearly  dead.  Hurry!  Oh,  please  hurry!  Can't  you 
see?  .  .  ." 

It  was  as  little  an  apology  as  it  was  an  explanation;  al- 
though an  invasion  of  any  other  man's  house  in  the  small 


The  Hue  and  Cry  461 

hours  would  have  required  something  more  than  both.  But 
the  necessity  of  either  did  not  occur  to  Arnold  now  any  more 
than  to  a  son  returning  in  like  stress  to  a  forgiving  father; 
and  the  recluse  accepted  the  situation  without  comment, 
spoken  or  facial.  Almost  as  on  the  occasion  of  Arnold's  pre- 
vious visit,  he  seemed  wholly  occupied  in  making  his  guest 
comfortable.  This  time,  he  raked  together  the  few  embers, 
added  newspapers  and  kindling,  and  drenched  the  lot  with 
coal-oil.  As  the  resulting  flare  lit  up  blackened  bricks  and 
shining  hearth,  he  threw  on  heavier  wood  and  genuine  heat 
replaced  that  fictitious  one  of  the  first  flames. 

Crossing  to  an  ancient  press  he  hastened  to  throw  out 
a  huge  Turkish  towel,  following  it  a  pair  of  woolen  pajamas ; 
then,  putting  aside  Arnold's  semi-protesting  palms,  the  Sa- 
maritan stripped  the  wet  garments  from  the  shiverer,  and, 
enveloping  him  from  shoulders  to  shins  in  the  blanket-like 
towel,  began  to  bring  back  the  blood  to  the  skin  by  a  manipu- 
lation that  was  not  unworthy  those  muscles  peculiar  to  Ori- 
ental bath-attendants.  So  little  unworthy  in  fact  that  he  soon 
had  his  patient  wincing  with  pain.  It  seemed  he  would  never 
cease;  but,  when  he  did,  and  Arnold  felt  the  soothing  soft 
flannel  of  the  pajamas  caress  his  now  feverish  skin,  and  was 
buttoned  up  to  his  neck  in  a  fur-lined  coat  and  thrust  into  a 
capacious  soft-seated  basket-chair  on  the  hearth,  he  stretched 
T>ut  his  limbs  in  an  ecstasy  of  sheer  physical  contentment,  re- 
laxing every  muscle,  luxuriating  in  a  sensation  so  sybaritic 
that  it  seemed — for  the  moment — as  if  exposure  to  all  sorts  of 
inclemencies  and  hardships  was  not  too  great  a  price  to  pay 
for  turning  the  faculties  of  enjoyment  to  so  ineffable  a  pitch. 

Before  familiarity  should  dull  his  senses,  he  scented  the 
aroma  of  coffee,  and  the  thrill  of  anticipation  was  added.  His 
host,  during  Arnold's  brief  rapture,  had  crossed  to  the  fire  and 
busied  himself  with  the  copper  kettle  from  which  the  hiss  of 
boiling  water  had  come  since  the  relighting  of  the  fire.  Fra- 
grant steam  now  arose  as  water  and  ground  Mocha  met. 


462  God's  Man 

Some  milk  having  been  heated,  the  compound  was  soon 
handed  to  Arnold  in  a  cup  like  an  egg-shell,  on  which  were 
quaint  Georgian  figures. 

Arnold  burned  his  lips  in  his  greedy  gulping.  But  what 
was  that  compared  with  retarding  even  for  a  moment  the 
glow  that  followed?  When  his  cup  had  been  twice  refilled — 
old  cognac  added  the  third  time — his  host  placed  near  him  a 
carved  box  containing  thick  Oriental  cigarettes,  for  one  of 
which  he  held  out  a  light;  and  Arnold,  after  lacing  the  fire- 
light with  the  first  cloud  of  feathery  smoke,  incontinently  for- 
got everything  except  that,  for  the  moment,  he  had  never 
experienced  a  sensation  of  happiness  so  absolute.  As  he  closed 
his  eyes,  he  felt  in  entire  sympathy  with  the  doctrines  of 
Hedonism. 

"You  needn't  talk  until  you're  all  right  again,"  said  his 
benefactor,  breaking  his  long  silence  to  prevent  the  thanks  he 
saw  about  to  be  spoken.  He  returned  to  his  pallet-bed  and 
resumed  his  blankets.  Arnold  bowed  his  head  in  grateful  ac- 
knowledgment. .  .  .  Presently,  having  luxuriated  long 
enough,  he  surveyed  the  room  through  half-closed  eyes,  discov- 
ering beauties  that  he  had  hitherto  overlooked.  And  beauties 
they  really  were,  although  Arnold  in  so  rapt  a  state,  found  it 
necessary  to  be  enthusiastic  over  something,  and  hardly  needed 
real  beauties  to  arouse  his  admiration. 

The  physical  comfort,  and  now  the  mental  stimulation  of 
the  man's  speech,  had  taken  Arnold  so  far  away  from  the  cold 
and  misery  of  the  last  few  hours  that  he  laughed.  But 
the  sound  of  it  fell  heavily  on  his  ears.  He  closed  his  eyes 
again,  as  if  he  hoped  to  shut  out  the  sight  of  the  night's 
horrors. 

The  keen-eyed  man  on  the  bed  noticed  his  suddenly  altered 
demeanor  and  closed  his  own  eyes;  so  that,  should  his  guest 
turn,  he  might  imagine  his  host  had  seen  nothing. 

"I  suppose  you  wonder  why  I'm  here?"  asked  Arnold  pres- 
ently, his  tone  sullen. 

"No,"  the  other  replied. 


The  Hue  and  Cry  463 

Arnold  eyed  him  aghast.  "How  can  you  know — already?" 
he  faltered. 

''You  asked  me  if  I  wondered  why  you  were  here/'  his  host 
replied;  "and  I  said  'No/  I  know  well  enough  why  you're 
here.  You're  in  trouble  and  you  think  I  can  help  you.  Well, 
I  can.  But  will  I,  that's  the  point  ?" 

He  paused,  but  only  slightly.  "I  will,"  he  went  on.  "When 
I'm  interested  (which  is  seldom)  I  know  the  man  who  inter- 
ests me  should  be  a  force  in  the  world  if  he  gets  the  right  han- 
dling. But  for  good  or  ill?  It's  my  duty  to  discover.  In 
your  case  it  must  be  for  good.  You  haven't  any  evil  instincts. 
If  you  are  in  trouble,  it  is  not  because  you  have  wanted  to  be 
evil.  That's  easy  for  any  one  to  see  if  he  has  learned  to  read 
what  Nature  prints  on  every  man's  face.  ...  So,  if  you 
are  in  trouble,  I'll  do  my  best  to  get  you  out.  And  I  have 
helped  to  get  a  good  many  people  out  of  trouble  in  my  time." 
.  .  .  His  tone  was  calm,  conversational,  no  hint  of  boast- 
fulness  or  arrogance  in  it.  But  whoever  listened  must  be  con- 
vinced that  he  spoke  in  the  security  of  great  strength. 

Something  snapped  in  Arnold.  Tears  stood  in  his  eyes. 
His  host  puffed  at  a  brier  pipe  and  stared  at  the  ceiling. 
"People  don't  come  through  the  worst  storm  in  years  to  pay  a 
friendly  call,"  he  resumed  lightly.  "Especially  on  a  person 
half-a-dozen  miles  from  anywhere.  Serious  trouble  is  obvious. 
When  you  feel  disposed, — or  able, — tell  me  about  it.  I  think 
you'd  better  have  a  sleep  first,  though." 

Arnold  laughed  again,— a  far  different  laugh  from  the  last. 
"Sleep !"  he  said.  The  other  knew  he  was  answered. 

"Well,  then  .  .  ."  he  invited,  and  placed  his  pillows  higher, 
so  that  he  could  look  directly  into  Arnold's  eyes.  And  Arnold, 
faltering  again,  began  .  .  .  began  the  story  of  the  past 
few  months  and  ended  with  that  of  the  last  few  hours.  .  .  . 

When  he  had  concluded,  his  lietener  still  maintained  his 
expectant  attitude.  But  now  his  eyes  were  eager.  'That  is  not 
all,"  he  said. 

"Not  all  ?"  Arnold  echoed  bitterly. 


464  God's  Man 

The  other  shook  his  head.  "The  most  important  part  is 
missing;  the  reason  why  three  people  like  your  friends — the 
sons  of  the  two  wealthiest  men  hereabouts, — and  yourself — a 
man  meant,  by  birth  and  brains  and  early  education,  to  follow 
in  his  father's  ways — happened  to  be  smuggling  opium? 
That's  the  important  part  of  the  story." 

"I — I — can't  see  why,"  Arnold  said  weakly.  This  man's 
odd  eerie  eyes  chilled  him.  There  was  something  about  the 
fellow  ...  a  weird  triumph — 

"Do  you  remember  what  you  asked  me  when  you  were  here 
before  ?"  the  man  inquired.  "I  haven't  forgotten.  'Why  have 
two  of  my  friends  and  myself  been  forced  into  shoddy  shady 
lives,  when  we  intended  to  be  decent  ?'  I  said  that  the  answer 
was  perfectly  plain,  but  that  there  was  no  use  telling  you — 
then !  And  to  prove  there  wasn't,  I  told  you  anyhow.  .  .  . 
Do  you  remember  what  I  said  ?" 

The  same  disquieting  voice,  the  same  strange  hidden  qual- 
ity, somber,  almost  uncanny.  "The  Purpose,"  Arnold  said,  his 
voice  so  still  and  small  it  did  not  seem  to  be  his  own.  "The 
world's  history  is  only  the  fulfilment  of  that  Purpose.  .  .  ." 

Arnold  was  almost  afraid  to  think,  so  terrifying  was  the 
thought  of  realization.  Like  the  faint  graying  of  the  eastern 
sky  outside,  betokening  the  approaching  dawn,  understanding 
had  begun  to  blot  out  the  black  clouds  that  hung  thick  and 
heavy  about  his  soul. 

"And  I  told  you  you  would  not  remain  here  and  write,  but 
would  go  back  to  the  city.  I  told  you  you  had  not  had  so 
much  bitterness  only  to  live  out  your  life  with  an  unanswered 
question  in  your  eyes.  And  I  told  you  that  men  like  us  were 
the  Sacrifices,  that  our  loves  and  even  our  lives  must  be  lost 
that  others  might  be  saved.  The  Cross  is  the  symbol  of  the 
Question,  the  Eesurrection  of  the  Answer." 

Again,  as  before,  his  eyes  blazed  with  strange  fires.  But  to 
Arnold  they  no  longer  held  strange  secrets.  "  'Only  after  we 
have  been  Crucified  can  we  know  that  all  has  not  been  lost: 
all  has  been  gained.  And  then,  and  then  only,  can  we  teach/  " 


The  Hue  and  Cry  465 

Arnold  had  repeated  the  other's  words  as  a  child  repeats  a 
lesson  over  and  over  before  its  meaning  is  begun  to  be  under- 
stood. 

"And  are  you  ready  to  be  crucified,"  he  heard  the  other 
thunder  in  his  ears,— thunder  it  seemed  although  the  man 
spoke  quietly  enough;  "so  far  you  have  only  been  scourged. 
To-night  is  your  Gethsemane.  You  can  escape,  continue  to 
have  the  world's  respect  Or  you  can  have— Calvary ! 
Choose!" 

Arnold  could  not  answer.  His  throat  was  choked,  the  beat- 
ing of  his  heart  was  suspended.  His  eyes  were  blinded,  too, 
for  the  first  rays  of  the  rising  sun  had  shot,  lance-like,  through 
the  open  windows  and  his  head  was  in  a  glory  of  light.  No 
miracle.  Merely  the  dawn.  But  what  are  miracles  ?  .  .  . 

Arnold  only  knew  that  at  last  there  was  no  "Why"  any 
more.  He  was  not  in  that  room,  but  seemed  to  soar  high  above 
the  earth,  and  -in  a  single  second  he  saw  the  whole  world 
spread  out  beneath  him.  All  his  bitterness  against  mankind, 
stupid,  ignorant  mankind,  fled.  A  great  pity  overpowered 
him,  then  a  great  love — a  love  beside  which  the  love  of 
woman,  or  wealth,  or  even  of  fame,  was  as  a  candle-light  in 
the  splendor  of  the  sun.  And  that  splendor  now  irradiated  him 
as  he  sat  with  head  upraised  and  eager  lips,  though  it  could  add 
no  light  to  that  already  in  his  shining  eyes.  And  when  he  an- 
swered the  other  man,  it  seemed  that  some  one  else  was  lis- 
tening. 

"I  know  now,"  Arnold  said.    "I  understand." 

They  sat  silent  as  the  sunlight  grew  and  grew  until  it  filled 
the  whole  room.  "I  understand,"  Arnold  said  again.  "Yes. 
And  only  an  hour  ago,  I  meant  to  have  Hugo  make  Archie 
swear  that  I  had  loaned  him  the  house.  I  was  even  going  to 
get  you  to  swear  that  I  had  spent  the  night  here.  .  .  ." 

"I'll  do  it  if  you  still  want  me  to,"  said  the  other  in  his 
strange  voice.  But  Arnold  did  not  seem  to  hear  him. 

"...  I  was  going  to  make  all  that  suffering  and 
misery  useless ;  all  that  so  many  have  had  to  endure  to  bring 


466  God's  Man 

things  to  this  pass, — when  the  answer  to  all  the  <Whys'  can  be 
given  to  the  world/' 

"It  has  been  given  before,"  said  the  other  man,  without  ex- 
pression. "Long  before  your  time.  Millions  have  suffered 
and  thousands  have  sacrificed — just  as  you  will  do — to  teach 
the  world  the  answer.  And  all  have  failed." 

"No,"  said  Arnold  slowly.  "There  were  always  some  who 
listened.  That  is  not  failure.  .  .  ." 

A  curious  heaviness  was  on  him ;  and,  although  he  recalled 
the  existence  of  certain  evolutions  of  Nature  that  explained 
his  meaning  better  than  any  words  of  his — for  instance,  the 
quadrillions  and  quintillions  of  little  blind  coral  insects  that, 
working  in  darkness  for  a  millennium,  give  their  bodies  to 
build  a  reef — he  could  not  find  the  energy  to  make  even  so 
simple  a  statement.  His  tongue  seemed  swollen,  his  speech 
thick. 

Alas,  for  those  misguided  authors  who  would  expand  the 
great  moments  of  life  into  hours  and  days ;  sustaining  the  ex- 
altations and  transfigurations  of  their  heroes  through  long 
chapters  and  longer  acts.  They  seem  to  forget  that  man,  if 
first  of  the  spirit,  is  last  and  not  least — for  his  earthly  span — 
of  the  flesh.  Even  the  greatest  can  not  sustain  the  thrill  of 
such  moments ;  and,  when  the  imprisonment  of  the  flesh  galls 
most,  they  summon  up  memories  of  the  time,  when  like  a  long- 
imprisoned  bird  released  from  its  cage  to  soar  in  the  sunlight, 
they  were  free. 

But  the  bird  must  soon  return,  having  been  caged  too  long 
to  survive  in  the  great  spaces.  So  with  Arnold.  His  exalta- 
tion was  too  great  for  his  physical  endurance :  his  heart  could 
not  pump  blood  fast  enough  to  keep  pace  with  its  rapid  beat- 
ing, nor  could  such  swift  breathing  furnish  air  sufficient  for 
his  lungs.  Had  his  exalted  state  endured  too  long,  he  must 
have  died  as  he  sat  there,  and,  as  many  have  died,  from  too 
great  a  gladness.  For  the  body  demands  for  each  exaltation  a 
corresponding  depression;  and  luckily  so,  since  the  converse 
is  also  true. 


The  Hue  and  Cry  467 

Hence  Arnold's  temporary  loss  of  articulation,  the  thickness 
of  his  tongue,  his  leaden  eyelids.  Coming  after  a  sleepless 
night,  a  night  of  weariness  and  stress,  the  great  moment  had 
sapped,  not  his  remaining  strength,  for  he  had  none,  but 
strength  as  yet  unborn.  And  so  even  as  his  thoughts  struggled 
for  expression  he  fell  asleep  with  the  warm  bright  sunlight  in 
his  eyes ;  and  the  rise  and  fall  of  his  breast  was  not  the  regular 
rise  and  fall  of  deep-chested  breathing,  but  the  shuddering  in- 
tensity of  scanty  breath  and  the  hammer  of  intermittent  heart- 
throbs. But  for  all  that,  there  was  a  smile  on  his  lips :  he  was 
truly  at  rest — at  last ! 


CHAPTER    THREE 

WEECK  ASHOEE 
ARNOLD'S  DECISION  EATIFIED 

HILE  Arnold  slept,  one  curtain 
of  mist  was  drawn,  then  another 
and  another. 

Suddenly  one  saw  the  Connect- 
icut shore,  hills  and  houses  a  ser- 
ried line  of  blue,  background  red 
•  and  gold,  sun  the  color  of  a  Jap- 
anese rose,  sapphire  Sound,  an 
enchanted  lake  of  ruby  wine,  basin 
bright  blue  crystal. 

Breath  of  the  dawn?  Sea- 
breeze? Elixir  of  life,  rather,  if 
anything. 

Whatever  it  was  it  swept  in  once  the  curtains  were  drawn, 
and  in  the  resulting  trinity  of  sight,  smell  and  sound,  all 
things  were  bright  and  crystal  clear.  Not  bright  blue  alone, 
but  bright  gold,  bright  white,  and  where  the  intermittent  ever- 
greens on  the  Green  Sands  Hills  stood  out,  bright  green,  too. 
Crystal  bright,  of  course.  The  end  of  the  world  was  the 
sort  of  a  place  one  wanted  to  go  to  this  morning.  The  coats 
of  the  gulls  were  dazzling  white,  the  pinions  of  the  crows  lus- 
trous black,  purple  black. 

"When  the  peninsula  philosopher  opened  his  door,  the  gulls 
were  circling  so  near  the  waves  that  the  tips  of  their  wings 
were  rosy.  A  foolish  young  gull  flaunted  a  very  fat  fish.  A 


Wreck  Ashore  469 

flock  of  hungry  crows  arrived.  Followed  a  sudden  flight,  a 
noisy  flurry,  and  out  of  a  cloud  of  feathers,  the  fish  flopped 
down,  the  gull  flapped  up,  and  squawking,  circled  seaward. 

During  the  battle,  a  bluejay  seized  upon  the  prize,  scream- 
ing derision. 

"Poor  Archie  Hartogensis,"  said  the  man  in  the  doorway, 
staring  after  the  terror-stricken  gull.  "You  and  your  fat  fish. 
Poor  John  Waldemar !  Poor  Benjamin  Hartogensis.  While 
you  were  fighting  for  it,  the  bluejays  got  it,  didn't  they  ?" 

He  had  turned  to  watch  the  jay  who,  with  his  fat  fish,  had 
careened  off  to  the  farthest  fastness  of  the  peninsula ;  was 
now  about  to  alight  upon  some  long  black  object  imbedded  in 
the  sand.  As  grace  before  meat,  Master  Blue-Coat  again  in- 
dulged his  cynical  sense  of  humor.  His  harsh  and  noisy  mirth 
seemed  sufficiently  expressive  of  a  similar  state  of  mind  in  his 
human  prototype. 

"Ha !  Ha !  Gull,  indeed !  Well-named,  well-named !  But 
how  did  Blackie  Crow  get  a  reputation  for  being  wise?  Ha! 
Ha!  Ha!  Ha!" 

So  accustomed  was  the  man  to  the  ways  of  birds  and  smaller 
beasts,  so  often  had  he  observed  them,  that,  when  the  jay's 
note  changed,  and  he  further  postponed  his  stolen  break- 
fast to  make  an  investigatory  flight  around  that  unusually 
long  black  object  on  which  he  had  alighted,  the  man  thought 
it  worth  while  to  reach  within  for  his  marine-glasses. 

The  jay  again  stood  guard  over  his  fat  fish,  but  stood  it  on 
one  foot,  the  other  scratching  beneath  his  wing.  "Oh,  yes.  A 
boat.  Didn't  recognize  it  at  first  upside  down.  Anyhow  it's  a 
wretched  boat.  Respectable  boats  are  made  with  some  regard 
for  the  comfort  of  jays.  And  how  can  any  jay  be  comfortable 
on  a  sharp  slippery  keel?  Some  crazy  new  fashion  of  those 
crazy  humans,  I  suppose."  Having  settled  the  matter,  he  be- 
gan his  belated  breakfast. 

Not  so  the  man.  He  had  deciphered  the  letters  on  the  long 
boat's  stern.  Long-boat  it  was,  and  of  the  centuries-old  sort 
used  by  sailing-ships.  The  man's  hands  dropped  to  his  sides. 


£70  God's  Man 

Evidently  he  was  oppressed  by  strong  excitement.  He  turned 
toward  his  sleeping  guest.  One  might  have  read  in  his  side- 
long glance  a  debate  as  to  the  advisability  of  Arnold's  awak- 
ening. 

Deciding  rather  dubiously  in  the  negative,  he  stripped  and 
went  seaward  for  his  accustomed  morning-plunge.  On  his 
return,  his  unquietness  continued  and  there  were  frequent 
repetitions  of  his  oblique  glance.  He  began  to  prepare  his 
morning  meal,  hoping  its  delectable  odors  might  awaken  the 
other.  Not  so.  And  the  smoking-hot  food  untasted,  the  pity 
of  a  great  heart  and  a  great  brain  gave  that  glance  such  con- 
centration that  it  brought  about  the  result  desired. 

Arnold  awoke.  "Just  in  time  for  breakfast,"  said  his  host, 
forcing  a  note  of  cheer.  And,  then,  answering:  "I'm  glad 
you  liked  the  coffee.  Here's  a  fresh  brew." 

Both  men  were  embarrassed.  Products  of  Anglo-Saxon 
training,  they  had  been  taught  to  be  ashamed  of  any  display 
of  emotion.  Now  that  Arnold's  exaltation  had  passed,  he 
was  afraid  he  had  been  theatric;  and  his  host,  knowing  this, 
must  yet  recall  the  incident  to  his  guest's  memory.  Indeed, 
he  could  hardly  wait  to  eat  before  he  plunged.  So  awkward  a 
silence  must  not  be  allowed  to  endure :  it  was  destructive. 

"You  realize,  of  course,  that  you  may  stroll  into  town  this 
morning  and  prove  to  people  you  have  been  here  all  night,  and 
that  no  one  will  suspect  you  seriously  of  being  connected  with 
either  the  shooting  or  the  smuggling?  Your  friend,  young 
Waldemar,  is  very  wealthy.  He  can  use  his  money  and  his  in- 
fluence to  get  Hartogensis  off.  And  if  he's  that  sort, 
— your  friend,  I  mean, — big-hearted,  loyal, — as  you  say, — he 
will.  And  there's  the  Squire  to  influence  the  'respectable  ele- 
ment/ They'll  only  hold  the  other  boys  as  accessories.  Keep 
them  jailed  until  the  trial.  Witnesses  really.  .  .  .  None 
of  the  three  is  likely  to  be  malicious  because  his  friends  were 
lucky  enough  to  escape.  Neither  you  nor  young  "Waldemar 
need  to  be  implicated.  You  haven't  committed  any  crime, 
anyhow.  You  haven't  even  witnessed  any  crime." 


Wreck  Ashore  471 

"There's  the  Cormorant,"  said  Arnold  painfully.  "They'll 
be  on  the  lookout  for  her,  now.  And — then, — donJt  you  see? 
It's  in  my  name  and  all — I  explained  that,  didn't  I  ?  When 
she  arrives—-" 

"You  mean  that  as  you'll  be  arrested  anyhow  when  the 
Cormorant  comes,  you  might  as  well  save  your  face  by  surren- 
dering now  ?"  But  he  got  no  further.  Arnold  had  dashed  off 
the  covers  and  now  stood  erect  and  angry. 

"Give  me  my  clothes,"  he  said.  "You'll  be  sorry  for  that 
some  day — " 

The  other  put  a  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "Sometimes  people 
are  carried  away  by  their  emotions.  But  you're  quite  normal 
now.  And  I  wanted  you  to  understand  that  you  could  go  free 
if  you  wished  to.  I  know  you  have  your  parents  to  consider, 
— and  that  they  are  very  old.  And  then  there's  their  pride  in 
their  unstained  family-name.  Centuries  of  unselfish  service 
and  good  works.  And — now — " 

Arnold  was  very  pale ;  his  hands  trembled ;  he  turned  away. 
But  when  he  faced  his  host  again,  his  eyes  were  untroubled. 
"I  believe  they'll  understand,"  he  said  quietly.  "I've  been 
such  a  sorrow  to  them  already  that,  when  my  father  realizes 
that  all  this  that  happened  had  to  be, — that  I  had  to  go 
through  all  this  for  a  purpose — why,  I  believe  he'll  go  down  on 
his  knees  and  thank  God." 

"Wait,"  the  other  broke  in,  his  strange  eyes  glowing.  Ar- 
nold had  a  sensation  of  helplessness.  "The  Cormorant  won't 
arrive.  Now,  or  next  week,  or  any  other  time.  D'you  under- 
stand? Won't!  Can't!  She's  done  for !" 

He  gave  Arnold  the  glasses.  "That's  a  captain's  boat. 
Do  you  think  he'd  lower  it  until  he'd  lost  all  hope  of  saving  his 
ship  ?  And  part  owner  of  an  uninsured  cargo  besides !  But 
there  she  is,  a  hole  in  her  bottom  big  enough  for  a  door.  Green 
Sands  signs  its  name  that  way  in  a  storm,  my  friend." 

The  glasses  he  had  thrust  into  Arnold's  hands  would  have 
been  shattered  on  the  floor  had.  he  not  caught  them.  Arnold 
was  again  among  the  hills  and  valleys  of  hissing  green.  But 


472  God's  Man 

now  Harvey  Quinn  was  near  by,  struggling,  too,  his  face 
turned  up  to  the  gray  awful  sky.  And  Captain  Danny's  little 
turtle  head  was  bobbing,  his  arms  real  flappers  now, — and,  as 
useless.  .  .  .  Atop  the  highest  white-capped  hill,  a  man's 
maimed  hand  was  thrust,  three  fingers  missing,  holding  aloft 
a  money-bag.  .  .  . 

Arnold,  choking,  threw  himself  face  downward  on  the  cot. 
A  clock  marked  off  some  silent  moments.  .  .  <  Then  he 
raised  white  set  face,  lax  wet  lips,  hot  dry  eyes. 

"This  God  of  ours  is  all  they  say  He  is, — cruel,  cruel,  cruel. 
The  waste  of  it,  the  cruel  waste.  If  there  was  any  lesson,  it 
was  taught  when  Waldemar  died.  There  was  no  need  for 
those  others  to  die  too — " 

"Taught, — to  you!  Yes!  But  there  must  be  a  great  trag- 
edy before  those  others  will  listen.  Each  one  of  those  deaths 
you  call  needless  will  save  a  thousand  lives,  my  friend. 

A  shudder  shook  him.  "Exaggeration  ?  I  tell  you  that  the 
so-called  civilization  that  gives  men  like  John  "Waldemar  mil- 
lions, destroys  a  thousand  others  every  day.  Waste!  Listen 
to  me !  It  took  a  million  years,  maybe,  for  that  strange  hybrid, 
— to  perfect  his  body.  Then  it  was  the  survival  of  the  fittest, 
— that  long  terrible  night  when  the  only  good  was  strength, 
the  only  evil,  weakness.  Another  million,  maybe,  and  man 
reached  the  perfection  of  the  mind.  .  .  . 

"After  the  night,  the  dawn.  But  first  the  false  dawn,  my 
friend.  Then  the  sky  seems  clear,  daylight  on  the  wing.  But 
only  seems  .  .  . 

"The  perfection  of  the  mind !  That  was  three  thousand 
years  ago.  Mere  mentality  can  go  no  further  than  it  did  in 
the  days  of  those  old  Greeks, — the  Golden  Age.  .  .  . 
"With  the  weapon  they  forged  for  man,  he  has  freed  himself  of 
the  fear  of  brute  strength,  of  superstition,  thrown  down  false 
priests  and  tyrant  kings,  conquered  disease  and  pain.  .  .  . 
He  has  even  dared  to  fight  Death  and  conquer, — sometimes. 
.  .  .  He  has  made  the  earth  his  servant,  the  sea,  the  air. 
But  for  all  his  science  and  his  machinery,  he  is  still  a  slave. 


WrecK  Ashore  473 

With  his  hand  on  the  door  of  freedom,  greed  and  hate  bar  the 
way.  .  .  . 

"False  dawn!  Will  the  daylight  never  come?  Will  men 
never  learn  that  perfection  of  the  mind  is  not  enough  ?  For  it 
can  not  do  away  with  greed  and  hate.  The  greed  of  the  rich, 
— without  rhyme  or  reason, — there  is  enough  for  all.  The 
hate  of  the  poor — how  can  poor  men  learn  not  to  hate  when 
the  weak  and  the  ignorant  are  murdered  or  brutalized  by  un- 
ceasing ugly  toil?  And  for  what? — to  make  vicious  women 
and  degenerate  men.  There  is  no  need  for  the  John  Walde- 
mars  to  be  cunning  and  ruthless,  nor  for  the  Benjamin  Harto- 
gensises  to  be  hypocritical  and  tricky ;  nor  for  the  men  of  big- 
ger brains  and  greater  hearts  to  be  caught  in  this  maelstrom 
of  commerce  and  finance  that  takes  all  and  gives  nothing.  It 
is  whirling  our  civilization  around  and  around  until  we  are  so 
dizzy  and  dazed  that  we  can  not  see  that  it  is  also  driving  us 
upon  the  rocks  as  rapidly  as  last  night's  storm  drove  your 
Cormorant. 

"It  was  too  late  after  she  struck;  it  did  not  matter  then 
whether  her  crew  saw  the  reef  or  not.  They  could  only  look 
on  helplessly  while  the  great  gale  tore  her  apart." 

He  bowed  his  head,  and  it  seemed  that  he  prayed  silently. 
But  he  still  continued  to  speak  although  so  low  that  his  lips 
seemed  scarcely  to  move;  and  his  eyes,  still  alight,  seemed 
fixed  upon  something  too  far  away  for  Arnold's  to  follow  them. 

"Rocks,  yes!  Greed  and  hate !  And  for  what?  John  Wal- 
demar  dead  by  his  own  hand  as  surely  as  if  he  had  pulled  the 
trigger.  Benjamin  Hartogensis  crazy  with  grief  for  the  dis- 
grace he  made  for  himself.  It  is  so  plain,  so  plain.  They 
must  listen  this  time,  they  must.  And  they  will,  surely  they 
will.  The  boy  is  right.  It  would  be  needlessly  cruel  for  him 
to  have  suffered  so  much,  otherwise.  And  all  those  others! 
But  for  him,  especially,  who  had  no  desire  to  do  evil;  whose 
people  have  served  so  long,  so  unselfishly,  and  so  well.  And 
that  was  why.  It  needed  some  one  such  as  he  before  they 
would  believe.  They  can  not  in  this  case  soothe  their  uneasy 


474  God's  Man 

consciences  with  the  apology  of  inherited  vice.  They  must 
believe  the  real  reason  for  once." 

"The  real  reason/'  Arnold  heard  himself  stammer.  It  was 
his  own  voice,  but  it  seemed  the  speaker  was  very  far  away. 

"The  real  reason  is  that  our  so-called  'civilization'  is  our 
Menace.  And  will  be  our  Destroyer.  Unless,  like  Franken- 
stein, man  who  created  it,  destroys  it.  ...  This  is  only 
another  of  God's  warnings.  He  is  very  tired  of  these  human 
folk  who  will  not  be  men.  .  .  .  And  He  is  very  tired  of 
warning  them,  too.  Unless  they  listen  soon,  He  will  destroy. 

"That  is  why  You  had  to  be  sacrificed.  It  was  necessary 
that  so-called  Civilization  should  drag  down  a  man  meant  to 
be  good  and  force  him  to  do  evil.  A  man  whose  antecedents 
would  defy  all  such  petty  little  excuses  as  heredity,  environ- 
ment, original  sin  ...  a  man  whose  ancestry  was  stain- 
less and  whose  mind  and  body  were  clean  and  strong;  a  man 
who  might  have  been  a  minister  of  the  gospel;  had  he  been 
let  alone,— or  a  millionaire;  had  he  desired  to  do  things  for 
himself  and  let  the  world  go  hang. 

"But  too  many  of  the  weak  and  helpless  and  ignorant  and 
hungry  had  been  sacrificed  in  previous  warnings, — and  to 
what  end  ?  It  was  too  easy  for  them  to  fall,  too  brutally  easy 
for  so-called  Civilization  to  kick  them  while  they  were  down. 
And  to  satisfy  its  virtuous  Self  it  was  doing  the  virtuous 
thing. 

"So  somebody  had  to  be  sacrificed  who  hadn't  any  of  the 
mob's  ugly  little  reasons  for  rebellion  ?  Who  wasn't  hungry  or 
poor  or  envious., — who  wasn't  any  of  the  ugly  little  things  that 
make  hate. 

"And  it  had  to  be  a  man  who  didn't  need  money  for  him- 
self. Who  didn't  want  money  at  all  if  he  must  get  it  in  the 
ugly  little  'honest'  ways  a  virtuous  civilization  applauds.  A 
man  who  believed  that  when  he  wasn't  helping,  he  was  hurt- 
ing. 

"And,  above  all,  a  man  who  would  finally  come  before  the 
Law,  and  stand  his  trial,  and  show  that  it  was  helping  that 


Wreck  Ashore  475 

brought  him  there,  not  hurting.  Can't  you  see  ?  From  the 
very  first  God  meant  it  that  way.  That  was  why  every  time 
you  helped  another,  you  hurt  yourself.  That  was  the  lesson 
that  must  be  brought  out  when  you  were  tried  for  offenses 
against  Civilization.  Instance  after  instance  has  been  piled 
up  to  prove  that  the  System  was  Guilty,  not  the  Man. 

"Take  each  incident  and  see  how  true  this  is.  You  were 
forced  out  of  college  for  helping.  You  were  forced  from  your 
chosen  work, — for  helping.  You  were  sent  to  jail, — for  help- 
ing .  .  .  and,  now,  you  are  going  to  jail  of  your  own  free 
will.  And  again, — for  helping." 

Arnold  started.    But  the  other's  gaze  was  steady. 

"Yes,"  Arnold  said  slowly.  "I'm  going  to  jail  of  my  own 
free  will." 

"To  prove  it  was  all  for  helping,"  the  other  resumed.  "For 
if  you  did  not — if  you  shirked  the  last  test — what  good  would 
all  the  rest  have  been?  You  are  going  to  surrender  yourself, 
and  you  are  going  to  make  Waldemar's  son  surrender  himself. 
And  when  you  do,  you  are  going  to  tell  why.  And,  also,  that 
you  had  only  to  comply  with  what  'Civilization'  taught  to  win 
the  world's  respect  and  share  its  riches. 

"Just  as  those  other  L'Hommedieus  had  only  to  comply, — 
that  Sir  Lucas,  that  Chevalier  Etienne, — to  win  high  places. 
But,  like  you,  both  preferred  to  be  rebels  and  exiles.  Because 
they  were  God's  Men. 

"That  is  why  you  need  no  longer  be  ashamed  of  anything 
you  have  done.  You  have  neither  disgraced  your  name,  nor 
been  unworthy  of  your  ancestors.  They  served  their  fellow- 
men  unselfishly,  yes !  But  you  will  be  remembered  as  one  who 
suffered  and  sacrificed  besides.  And  on  the  day  when  your 
foot  touches  the  prisoner's  dock,  and  you  make  answer  to  Civ- 
ilization's indictment,  I  doubt  if  any  one  of  your  race  will 
have  had  as  good  a  right  as  you  to  be  called  'God's  Man'." 


THE  END 


000  037  097    3 


